


And the Day Winding Like Dreams

by HugeAlienPie



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Queer Character, Canon Queer Relationship, Crossover, Dreamsharing, Food, Happy Ending, Jack Zimmermann's Overdose, Las Vegas, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Eric Bittle/Derek "Nursey" Nurse, Multi, Non-Binary Derek Nurse, Panic Attacks, Past Kent Parson/Jack Zimmermann, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Recreational Drug Use, Rehabilitation, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-12 04:19:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 48,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18438890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: Jack left his NHL dreams behind after rehab, but as his time at Samwell neared its end, he had no idea what to do with his life instead. Enter Jack's former rehab neighbor, Dom Cobb, who introduced him to the high-stakes world of dreamshare. Six years later, Jack runs one of the best-known teams in the business, but a job gone wrong brings his biggest challenge yet: a dive into the sleeping mind of Kent Parson.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What even is this fic? It's sort of an _OMGCP/Inception_ crossover, but not enough to tag _Inception_ (because if I were in _Inception_ fandom, I'd be kind of cranky about this fic showing up in my tags). It's sort of a fusion, but they still play hockey. Basically, I read a tumblr post about careers the SMH crew could have after graduation, and somehow I jumped from that to "what if Jack Zimmermann became the Nate Ford of dreamshare?" And a fic was born.
> 
> Any inconsistencies between how dreamshare works in this fic and in _Inception_ can be handwaved away by the fact that the fic's "now" timeline takes place eleven years after the film, and the process has evolved in the interim.
> 
>  **Content Warnings:** food, alcohol, recreational drug use, nonconsensual drug use, questionable consent, panic attacks, pregnancy mentions, discussion of Jack's overdose and unhealthy relationship with Parse, suicide
> 
> About that suicide CW: in _Inception_ canon, characters must kill themselves in the dream to wake up in the "real world." No one actually dies, but, wow, is it a lot of suicide. Take care of yourselves.
> 
> As always, let me know if I need to add any tags, and drop me a line if you need further clarification on any of the tags before you wade in.
> 
> Happy reading!

**NOW: March 2021**

Jack prefers to inspire with hopes and dreams and secret desires than intimidate with fears. But the mark's being uncooperative, and Jack has only a few minutes, as time passes here, before the kick.

Jack turns away from the mark. That turns him toward Kenny, who's leaning against a tree, arms crossed, smirk firmly in place. "Lardo," Jack murmurs, ignoring him, "give me a waterfall. The taller the better."

The ground rumbles and then rockets upward, a cascade of crayon-blue water thundering away beneath them. Cook yelps and clings to Jack's arm. His projections, which have been eyeing Jack with increasing hostility, retreat, identifying the object that incorporates his two worst fears—water and heights—as the greater and more immediate threat.

Jack, having possibly intimated that he's a fae spirit, takes Cook's hands and looks deeply into his eyes. "Demetrius Cook, I am the guardian of this waterfall," he says, "and I can protect you. But you must give me something in return."

"Anything!" Cook's eyes dart frantically toward the waterfall. " _Anything_!"

"The prototype you stole from your brother André," he says. "Tell me where it is."

Demetrius Cook, bless his too-trusting heart, tells him.

"You got that?" Jack asks.

He hears computer keys clacking, and then Chowder says, "Got it. Ford's on her way."

"Thank you." Jack turns to Cook. "Thank you, Demetrius," he says. "The waterfall cannot harm you." Before Jack can ask, a door opens in the middle of the landscape, leading to a perfect facsimile of the room in Cook's apartment that they're in topside, but with the colors inverted. Jack loves his team.

Cook rushes to safety. Jack looks around Lardo's color-soaked landscape. If he could, he would stay here until the kick, soaking in the bright sunlight and exploring the unusual trees and birds. But extra time to clean up and clear out never hurts. Tilting his face toward the sun, he says, "We're done. Get out and pack up."

As his team acknowledges him and fade out of the dream until it's just him and Lardo, Jack lowers his face and looks around one more time. Kenny's watching avidly, like he'd done in the Q, looking for either a weakness or a strength to exploit. Jack never knew what to _do_ with those looks, as they turned him hot with embarrassment and arousal in turns. Now he does what he wishes he'd been able to do then: he ignores it.

Jack runs his thumb across the embossed metal surface of his totem. " _Happy Birthday June 22!_ " Still dreaming. The gun is heavy in his pocket, but he's never died by jumping off a waterfall before.

"You sure, Zimms?" Kenny asks.

Surrounded by blue trees with black flowers, silver lizards skittering across their branches, Jack Zimmermann raises his arms high, and he leaps.

*

Chowder is jumping up and down when Jack wakes up with a crick in his neck. "I can't believe you _did_ that!" he whisper-shouts, so as not to disturb the sleeping mark. "Can you guys believe he did that?"

"Maybe if we knew what he did, bro," Holster says.

"He _jumped_ off the _waterfall_!" Chowder whisper-shrieks.

"Dude, sick!" Ransom says as he and Holster pause in returning Cook to the state they'd found him in and high-five Jack. "Top marks for presentation."

Lardo smirks from across the room where she's removing her cannula and packing up the PASIV. "Glad you're getting good use out of my creations," she says, and Jack nods.

Recognizing that their mark might not be as deeply asleep as he seems, they table further discussion until they're out of the apartment. Jack falls into step beside Bitty, bumping their shoulders together lightly. Bitty tsks. "Quite the adrenaline junkie, Mr. Zimmermann."

Jack laughs softly. "Have to get my thrills somehow, since I'm not playing hockey all the time."

"Lord, I can see you in the NHL. Would've been the biggest brawler around, wouldn't you?"

Jack laughs louder at that. "Not while Alexei Mashkov's playing."

Bitty's eyes go glassy. "Now _there_ is a man I wouldn't mind getting a little rough with me." he says. Ransom laughs and leans back for a fist bump.

Jack's insides flutter.

"Damn it," Nursey groans from behind them, "I _do_ know. And I can never _un_ know."

"Derek Malik Nurse, in this house we do not kinkshame," Bitty says tartly.

"Shit, sorry, Bits," Nursey says. "It's, uh…hang on… _oh_."

Bitty turns and flashes Nursey a lightning grin. "See it?"

" _Oh,_ yeah."

Lardo pokes Jack in the ribs. "You know we're gonna have Mashkov in our next practice session, right?"

Bitty's eyes brighten. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Nursey says, breathless.

Jack's insides do the fluttery thing again. He should stick to salads before jobs.

"Deal with your damned ex, Jack," Holster says. "He's fucking annoying."

"Not a patch on the real thing," Jack mutters.

*

**BEFORE THEN: JUNE 2009 - MAY 2014**

Rehab was different from what Jack had anticipated, because his parents were rich enough to afford the best for their fucked-up son. Nothing but top-shelf institutionalization and smokescreening for their future Calder winner.

Jack's room at Fallwood was furnished in soothing dark earth tones, which suited his personality. He'd peeked into other rooms with more vibrant palettes, and the art in the common areas tended toward bold abstracts rather than muted landscapes. Patients wore their own clothes, rather than facility-issued pajamas or hospital gowns. Other than therapy (individual daily, group weekly) and med check, Jack's time was his to do with as he pleased, although the staff was more than happy to help him build a more structured schedule, if he felt it would help.

In short, Fallwood Recovery Institute was designed to make sure Jack knew he was more than a number and was free to leave whenever he chose.

But he _was_ a number, the stark "1" on his sweater. And he was Jack Zimmermann, shining star, legacy hockey prodigy, the best of the best. He'd fucked up, and he couldn't walk out of here until he was perfect again.

Which meant he was never walking out of here.

All the rooms in this part of the building were singles. Residents were encouraged to "foster connections," but Jack had no interest in doing that. Technically they had anonymity here, known to each other only by first names, but multiple people had recognized Jack and made a beeline toward him either to offer condolences or dig for dirt. He'd learned how to steer clear and cultivate an air of simmering hostility. He wasn't here to make friends.

Jack only connected with one person: his next-door neighbor, Dom. Jack couldn't tell if Dom genuinely didn't recognize him or was pretending. Either way it was a boon that Jack welcomed.

Jack struggled to read people at the best of times, and Dom was harder than most. He squinted constantly, leaving Jack uncertain whether he needed glasses or wanted to look mysterious. He went for days without speaking, only to burst into a torrent of words on one of his only two topics of conversation: how much he loved his kids (for whose sake he was in rehab, although he never said what he was in rehab for, and Jack never cared enough to ask) and how much his in-laws hated him. Jack got the sense that his wife had died under unusual circumstances and her parents blamed him.

Jack liked knowing one person who didn't give a fuck about him. Who never asked what had happened, or why he was here, who never brought up hockey or rushed to assure him that he could take however long he needed to get back on the ice—and who, therefore, Jack couldn't disappoint by saying he wasn't sure he _wanted_ to get back on the ice.

So the first time he tried saying it, he said it to Dom. The July evening was surprisingly mild, a soft breeze dispelling the humidity, carrying the heavy perfume of clematis and peony and a whiff of algae off the lake. Jack clenched his fists and kept his eyes moving, half expecting his father or one of his spies to pop out from behind the rhododendrons.

Dom slouched beside him on the bench, posture relaxed, almost lazy, seeming unaware of the turmoil in Jack's head. Maybe he was. Spending time with a narcissist had perks.

"I don't know if I want to play in the NHL," Jack said, harsh and horrible and rushed. "I'm not sure it's right for me."

Dom sat up straighter. Jack thought he caught a flicker of interest in his eyes, a slight widening before they fell back to their usual squint. "Was that a possibility?"

Jack _still_ couldn't tell if Dom knew who he was. But Jack had said the worst, had shown Dom the giant fucking block of ice that had settled in his chest, and Dom hadn't walked away. He hadn't insisted that Jack would change his mind tomorrow, or reminded him of how much time and money had been invested in him and what a tragedy it would be to waste his talents. Jack had voiced the most terrifying thought he'd ever consciously had (the thoughts he'd been having right before he blacked out in that hotel bathroom must had been worse, but he couldn't remember them, couldn't remember if he'd actively been trying to kill himself or if he'd just wanted to feel like he could _breathe_ for one damned minute), and the world hadn't ended.

Jack laughed and felt five pounds of ice fall away. "Yeah," he said. "That was a possibility."

*

Jack kept saying it. He said it in group therapy, and ten pounds of ice fell away. He said it in individual therapy, and fifteen pounds were gone. He said it to his parents, had the biggest setback since he came to Fallwood, and woke up the next morning feeling like his block was half the size of yesterday when he remembered his father, eyes bright with tears, saying, "I've only ever wanted you to be happy."

Jack said other things. He said, "I don't know how to let myself be imperfect." He said, "I think my dad and I have misinterpreted a lot of things we've said to each other." He said, "I—I'm bisexual. That didn't _cause_ my anxiety, but knowing I was going into a profession where I would have to hide that part of myself didn't help anything." He said, "Kenny and I were awful for each other."

With every word, more ice vanished. The scary part was, he didn't know what was _under_ that ice.

When Jack was 13, he'd put on a suit and dutifully accompanied his parents to Civic Arena for IceFest, a fundraiser for one of the Pens' partner nonprofits. After an hour of obligatory handshakes and photo ops, he'd wandered off and found the ice sculptors. He'd watched, entranced, as a huge guy with arms the size of small trees took a chainsaw to a block of ice.

"People like that—" The guy had jerked his head across the room, where catering company staff in black chefs jackets picked diligently at a row of identical ice swans and flames. "—sculpt by a template. Technically proficient but lacking in passion or flow. Me, I go where the ice goes. I follow its natural lines and changes and let it tell me what shape to make."

All his life, Jack had been following the template. Now he was letting the ice do what it wanted, letting his life tell him what it wanted to be. He just wished _he_ knew what it wanted to be.

On the third Wednesday of Jack's stay at Fallwood, Dom wandered into his room, which he hadn't done before. Dom touched Jack's things as though committing them to memory, as though someday his life might depend on remembering the exact weight and texture of Jack's Tour Eiffel snow globe.

"Do you know what you'll do when you get out of here?" Dom asked, spinning Jack's lucky Rimouski puck around the desk's scarred surface. It was the only hockey-related object in the room.

Jack shook his head. When he got here, the pressure of not knowing the answer to that question would've sent him into a tailspin of anxiety. Now it was just a question that he didn't know the answer to, no more interesting or important than any other. "No idea," he admitted happily.

Dom grinned sharply. "Good," he said. He pushed away from the desk. "Good night, Jack," he said, and walked out before Jack had the chance to return the sentiment.

Jack wasn't surprised to wake up the next morning and discover that Dom had completed treatment and left Fallwood the night before. He ignored the stab of disappointment that Dom left no way to get in touch. They hadn't had that kind of relationship. And anyway, Jack had a lot of healing left to do.

*

Jack coached peewee for a year. Then he went to Samwell. Even with the NHL out of the picture, he couldn't give up hockey cold turkey. Samwell was his mother's alma mater, had a D-I hockey team, and sat at the top of most lists of LBGTQ-friendly universities. It was an easy decision.

He went to Samwell, played damned good hockey, kept up with his therapy appointments, and built a family. He let Johnson and Shitty, and later Ransom, Holster, and Lardo, show him what life could be like when he surrounded himself with people who didn't give a fuck how many points he earned per game, what genders he was attracted to, or how many panic attacks he had, so long as he was a decent human being who let people into his life even a little. He dated, infrequently, all over the gender spectrum. Nothing serious. He healed so slowly he barely noticed it happening, but by the middle of his junior year, he felt like a whole person again.

He checked in with himself periodically, searching for the fire that had propelled him to the top of the Q. He had time. Time to attend prospect camps, to reach out to any of the dozens of GMs, coaches, and honorary uncles trying to lure him to the show. But each time he asked himself what he wanted, the answer was resoundingly, " _Not that_." The hockey world continued to express its surprise. The hockey world could get over itself.

*

Bittle was _loud_ in the kitchen. The clanking whir of his ancient hand mixer, the lilt of his voice as he sang along to painfully catchy pop songs, the opening and closing of cabinets as he searched for that last "little something" the recipe needed.

But on this day, right before finals at the end of junior year, Jack came back from Founders to the sounds of Bittle turning cooking into a martial art, emphasizing that he excelled at an activity requiring sharp knives, hot ovens, and quite possibly access to untraceable poisons. Jack dumped his stuff on the bench by the door, kicked off his shoes, and walked slowly toward the kitchen, braced for anything from lax bros to an armed hostage situation.

Dom hadn't been on his list, but he couldn't honestly say he was surprised.

"Jack," Bittle said, jabbing his biggest, sharpest knife in Dom's direction, "this... _person_ says they're a friend of yours."

Dom smirked. God, Jack had forgotten how smug his face could look. "I said I knew you. Anything else Mr. Bittle inferred is on him."

" _Don't_ ," Jack snapped, his protective instincts toward his team flaring. At Fallwood, Dom had seemed harmlessly superior, like a stodgy old professor who used to be hot shit and didn't realize that his field had moved twenty years beyond him. Sitting in the Haus kitchen, sharply pressed and shined, he seemed _far_ from harmless. A primal predator/prey instinct in Jack woke up and recognized itself as prey. Maybe Bittle wasn't being aggressive _enough_ with the knife.

Dom held up his hands in faux surrender, looking shrewdly between Jack and Bittle. Jack's stomach lurched. "Sorry," Dom said, and Jack had never heard a less apologetic apology. "Do you have a room?" he asked. Jack glared. If Dom knew to look for him here, then he damned well knew the answer to that. Dom huffed a laugh and stood, inclining his head toward Bittle. "Thank you for the lemonade, Mr. Bittle." Bittle grunted and waved with his knife.

When they got upstairs, Jack checked to make sure Shitty wasn't in his room and then, satisfied that they were as alone as they could get, Jack gestured Dom into the desk chair and settled on the bed. "I'd ask how you found me," he said, "given that you only knew my first name and that I'm from Québec. But I don't think I'd like the answer."

Dom waved that off like it was a minor of triviality, rather than a heart-clenching breach of the anonymity Fallwood had promised. "Arthur can find anyone," he said. "He says hello, by the way."

Jack remembered Arthur vividly. The angular man in impeccable bespoke suits had been Dom's most frequent visitor, followed closely by the short, bubbly architect who'd seemed oddly obsessed with Penrose steps and Fischer-Morrow stock prices. Jack had pieced together that Arthur spent considerable time with Dom's kids, making sure their grandmother wasn't poisoning their minds against him. He also traveled extensively and spun stories of barely believable adventures in the world's remotest corners.

After meeting Arthur and before learning the tragic tale of Dom's wife, Jack had stared at his tray in the dining hall, clenched his fork, and asked, "Is he your husband?"

Dom had laughed for a good two minutes longer than the question deserved before wheezing, "His actual husband would kill me." Then he'd fallen abruptly silent and said slowly, " _He_ would kill me."

"As nice as this trip down memory lane is," Jack said, "why are you here?"

Jack's brusque tone seemed to delight Dom. "What are your plans for after graduation?"

The question threw Jack back to Dom's last night at Fallwood. Dom was even touching Jack's things with the same focus—the macro lens to his DSLR, at the moment. Jack gave the same answer: "No idea."

Dom offered him the same sharp grin. "Excellent. Have you heard of dreamshare?"

Jack frowned. "Is that a computer thing? Like a cloud drive?"

Don laughed loudly. Dom's laugh always took Jack by surprise, how big and free it sounded coming out of such a closed-off person. "Get comfortable, Jack," Dom told him. "My name is Dominic Cobb, and I'm here to tell you about a defunct military operation called Project Somnacin."

* * *

**NOW: March 2021 (three weeks later)**

Officially, they co-own an innovation consulting LLC called Penitus Potes Consulting. They have headquarters in Boston and satellite offices in Atlanta, San Francisco, Montréal, and Toronto. They earn modestly, spend frugally, and pay their taxes, US and Canadian. Holster always grins as he hits the submit button on their returns and says, "Look, Ma! I'm using my degree!"

Post-job brunch is a tradition as old as Penitus Potes itself. The Sunday after their mandatory three-week post-job scatter ends, they buy a shit-ton of groceries and tumble into Shitty and Lardo's brownstone, where Bitty rules the kitchen with an oven-mitted iron fist. Then they pile around the too-small dining table, falling into each other's spaces and talking over each other's sentences like they're back at Samwell. Jack can't imagine anyone else he'd rather spend his time with.

The rule is: no shop talk until dessert. Usually that means they wait until everyone's mouths are crammed full of whatever delicious concoction Bitty's whipped together for them. Today it means that the instant Holster and Nursey clear the dinner plates, Shitty says, "I did some digging."

Jack bets Shitty was a kid who picked at loose corners on the laminate of his textbook covers until they came off. Jack gestures him on with his fork.

"It occurred to me," Shitty says, "that never once, during the whole job, did anyone tell us what André Cook's prototype _does_." He gives a hard look around the table, and his voice drips self-recrimination as he adds, "And not once did we ask."

A lot of forks clatter onto a lot of plates.

"No, I asked," Jack says, looking sheepish. "I just didn't understand the answer."

"And you didn't check with anyone else," Shitty says.

"Don't be a dick, Shitty," Lardo says, voice hard. "If you know something, _tell us_."

Shitty takes Lardo's hand. "Wifebro," he says softly, "it's an improvement on a type of restraint. Officially, it's used for herding cattle. It's also popular among human traffickers."

"And… we're sure they're not using it for cattle?" The desperately hope in Chowder's voice almost ruins Jack. For once, not a soul chirps Chowder for his optimism, but the ringing silence around the table knocks him back harder than any chirp could've.

"I feel sick," Holster says weakly.

"Right behind you, bro." Nursey looks green around the edges.

"We have two bathrooms," Shitty says, not unkindly. He's rubbing Lardo's back as she rocks her head against the tabletop.

Holster bolts. Nursey stays put, leaning heavily against Ford. Chowder quietly excuses himself from the room, no doubt to call Farmer and restore his faith in the world.

Jack glares at his best friend and source of eighty percent of the team's jobs. "How," he says, forcing his voice to stay even, "did you not find this before you referred André Cook to us?" He turns his glare toward the remaining half of the best point team in the business. "How did _you_ not find it before we took the job?"

Ransom scowls mutinously, but it's Bitty who's brave (or foolhardy) enough to ask, "How did _you_ not find it during the twenty hours you spent working out details of the job with André and letting him cry on your shoulder about how his brother wronged him?"

The wry twist to Bitty's words takes a minute for Jack to identify. "You thought I'd— _no_. I would never. Not with a client." Bitty looks skeptical, which hurts, but he can deal with that later. "We need to figure out what happened, and why, and who we need to make pay for it."

"Do we?" Ford asks mildly.

Jack opens his mouth to snap. Then he stops. Ford _thinks_ before she speaks (except when she and Holster get talking musical theater, in which case, god help them all). "Keep taking."

"I want to figure out the _who_ and the _why_ as much as you do." She tilts her head, considering. " _Almost_ as much as you do. But asking those questions won't get us the answers we need." Ford ticks her questions off on her fingers. "What did André do with the prototype after we handed it over? The job was three weeks ago—where is the prototype now? Is it being used for what we're afraid it is? If so, how can we get it out of commission—and, ideally, take down the operation using it. Are there other similar prototypes? If so, where are _they_ , and can we get them?"

This is why Jack built this team. Others in the business tell him that working with the same people all the time makes them vulnerable. But Jack would rather have one small team he trusts completely than rotas of strangers. "Tell me how to answer those questions," he says, "and we'll do it."

By the same magic that makes pies appear around Bitty, Ransom's laptop appears on the table with a properly formatted spreadsheet already created. "On it, bro," Holster says as he returns to the table. He and Ransom lean their heads close and get to work, already lost to the world. Ford hops up and hovers behind them, in case their efforts turn up leads she needs to run down. Nursey watches her go, sagging once her shoulder's gone.

"Uh, actually."

The others swivel towards Shitty. "Cook and his brother were, like, the tip of the shit iceberg I started to uncover. Like, it's a veritable cornucopia of disgust. Underground fighting rings, drugs, kiddie porn. If it's a terrible thing that terrible people do to each other, or to innocent bystanders, it's part of this. And it has its hooks in people in every sector—politics, film, sports, you name it."

Jack's eyebrow goes up. "Sports?"

Shitty's shoulders slump, and he looks around at everyone _but_ Jack. "Yeah, uh..." He wipes a hand over his face, smoothing down his moustache. "I couldn't find _names_ anywhere. Just rumor and descriptions that are only useful if you already know the people involved."

"But?" Jack prods.

" _But_ ," Shitty says reluctantly, " _groups_ popped up in ways clearly indicating that someone from the organization is involved." Now he looks at Jack, and the stricken look in his eyes makes Jack wish he hadn't. "One of those groups is the Las Vegas Aces."

"Oh," Jack says.

And then, " _Oh_ ," everyone else says.

Jack is deeply glad he chose to go through Samwell out of the closet. He thinks it helped the team—the whole team, not just the other queer players—to have a captain willing to be that open about his life. But he also deeply regrets their having figured out that he used to Have a Thing (capitals mandatory, according to Nursey) with Kent Parson.

"He's our in, Jack," Bitty says from across the table, looking at Jack with that soft, sympathetic smile. "He has to be."

He's right, and Jack knows it. But he doesn't have to like it.

*

**THEN: October 2017**

"And it's like… it's like, _fuck_ my grandparents, you know?"

Jack didn't know, not really. Shitty had once drunkenly described inner workings of the Knight family as "the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns." But Jack had spent enough time with Shitty since he started his clerkship to know that the situation had turned more horrific than usual.

"I wish I were brave," Shitty said suddenly. "I wish I were brave like you."

Jack jerked around to stare at him. "Like _me_?"

Shitty nodded and waved his joint around, showering ash. Jack carefully removed it from his hand and set it in the ashtray before Shitty could recreate the Green Couch Conflagration of 2014. "Jack Zimmermann walks away from a seven-figure NHL contract to do… what the fuck is it you do, again?"

Jack swallowed. Of all the things he did for the job, the ethically and legally questionable, the downright illegal and immoral, the one he hated most was lying to his friends and family. "Innovation consulting," he said quietly.

"Innovation consulting!" Shitty shouted. He crushed Jack's shoulder in a brutal grip. "I got _no clue_ what the fuck that is, man. It sounds as boring as fuck-all, but you do it because _you_ want to, and damn everything else." His head thunked onto the battered, sticky coffee table, and he muttered, "Damn everything else."

"Yeah, but—" Jack scrubbed his hand through his hair and laughed. "The situations aren't comparable, eh? My parents never said, 'Go into the NHL or we're cutting you off.'"

Shitty turned his head and half-opened one bloodshot eye. "Dude, was that supposed to be your _dad_?" He snorted. "Don't quit your day job, m'bro."

"You know what I mean," Jack said, picking at the label on his beer bottle. "It's easy to be brave when you have a strong safety net." He shook his head. "You and Lardo are trying to get by in one of the most expensive cities in the country, and 'starving artist' in an actual phrase in this language. Nobody faults you for doing what you have to to survive."

"I do," Shitty said bleakly. "This fucking job, brah." He threw his weight against the couch like he couldn't stand to be near himself for another second. "People and companies doing _godawful_ things and paying us obscene amounts of money to avoid a whisper of consequence for it." He spread his hands wide. "And this, _this_ is what my jagoff grandparents consider a respectable 3L clerkship." Shitty slid the ashtray over but made no move to pick up the joint. "I think Lardo's gonna call off the wedding."

Jack sat up so fast the couch springs squealed. " _What_?" Shitty had been in love with Lardo since the day they met. When they got together at the end of Shitty and Jack's senior year, they'd become one of those cornerstone couples that made Jack believe, despite his sketchy track record, that real, enduring love was possible. Alicia and Bob. Arthur and Eames. Lardo and Shitty. " _Why_?"

"Look, man, I don't blame her—and I don't want you to." He rubbed both hands over his face. "I wouldn't want to be married to me, either."

And Jack, he'd been waffling about this decision. He trusted Shitty with his life, but he wasn't sure if he could trust him with this secret. But if the misery of the job was weakening Shitty's relationship, then the choice became simple. "What if I could make it better?"

Shitty snorted. "I mean, short of coming with me on an epic file-shredding rampage the likes of which Messrs Olmsted, Newsome, and Thao have never dreamed of in their most sweat-soaked, balls-shaking nightmares, I'm not sure what you can do. It's not like the firm has innovations you can consult on."

"Yeah." Jack worried his label. "The thing is, I've been in an… apprenticeship period, I guess you'd call it. I'm ready to strike out on my own, and I'm going to need clients. Poaching other people's clients is one of _the_ worst offenses in the business—euh, basically a capital crime. I wouldn't want their clients, anyway, because the shit my colleagues do is—well, it makes your firm look like a family picnic." He was aware of Shitty's gaze on him, eyes huge, mouth bristling with questions. Jack ignored it. "But if you brought me the worst of the worst you handle—the clients you _really_ think got away with unforgivable shit, the victims you _really_ want justice for... yeah. I want to do that."

Using dreamshare to get justice for people who couldn't get it through conventional channels, having Shitty pass him names from his awful job—he could do that and still live with himself.

He finally looked at Shitty, who looked like Jack had opened a panel in his head to show off his robot innards. Jack smothered a grin. _Just wait_ , he thought.

"Jackabelle," Shitty said, slowly and carefully, "the way you talk makes me contemplate the possibility that 'innovation consulting' is code for 'mob boss.' What in all actual fuck?"

Jack let his smile show. He pointed at the baggie and rolling papers on the arm of the couch by Shitty's elbow. "Roll another," he said. "You're going to want it for this."

*

**NOW: March 2021**

"Nothing from his childhood." Jack leans over the table and points at four locations on Lardo's list. "We don't want to turn this into a nightmare for him."

Lardo pulls her pen from behind her ear and strikes through the first three locations Jack indicated but pauses at the last one. "How far forward are we talking?"

Jack's expression hardens. "Nothing before the Q."

Lardo whistles. "Jesus. What Dickensian bullshit is that?"

Jack thinks of the one and only time he met Kent's parents. "The bad kind."

"Huh. The arena? Can't go wrong with two hockey bros dreaming about hockey."

At the counter behind them, Bitty snorts. "My word, I'd forgotten what sports bros at peak sports bro could be like."

Jack smirks at him. "Plenty of reminders on this job, eh?" He shakes his head. "Kenny lives and breathes hockey. And we already have it on the first level. If we use it again for the second level, he'll get bored and tune out."

"Right," Lardo says, sighing and striking out an additional three locations. "No boring His Highness."

"Lardo," Jack says with a slight warning in his voice.

Lardo jabs her pen in Jack's direction. "Don't think we've forgotten when he crashed the kegster your senior year to gloat."

Jack shifts uncomfortably at that memory. Kenny hadn't _just_ come to gloat. It had been his last effort at luring Jack to the Aces, and to his bed. The team had run Kenny off in short order, but Jack had spent the rest of the night in an anxiety spiral, unable to stop thinking of going to the show and sneaking around again, after five years of being out of the closet and out of the race.

The memory spools out before Jack can get it under control. He breathes through it, and it's not so bad, but it's a recollection he could've done without—until the end. He grins at Bitty. "I got cookies out of it."

Bitty grins back. "Nothing better on a bad day than MooMaw's chocolate chip cookies."

When Jack turns to the table, Lardo's watching him and Bitty like they're an episode of her favorite period drama. He raises an eyebrow, and she shakes her head and looks at her list. "Not many places left," she says, tapping the paper with the end of the pen.

Jack scans the list again. What's left is close, but they don't hit him in that spot that... resonates, for lack of a less New Agey term. Much of what the team does, they do by instinct, which makes Jack incredibly nervous. Intellect. Fact. He trusts those. Too bad he went into a profession where facts are thin on the ground and people "feel their way" through most things.

"The problem is, they're all boring," Lardo says, tossing the pen onto the table. "I'm sorry, Jack, but if we want to keep Parse's attention, these won't cut it."

Jack looks down at her, bemused. "What do you suggest?"

She shrugs. "I'm not the expert on Kent Parson circa 2008. We picked him as the mark because _you_ have inside information on him. Where would he go? What's a place that only you knew about, or went to? Someplace he'd associate with you and feel safe but engaged?"

To say Kenny's childhood had been volatile was putting it mildly. So much of their friendship, before they dropped the lit match of secret romance into it, had been about Jack—and his parents—being the most stable people Kenny had ever met. Jack had worried that Kenny would find them boring, but Kenny treated their homebody family like it was the most precious gift anyone had ever given him. Jack takes risks in dreamspace because he's so orderly topside. For Kenny, still throwing himself around on knife-shoes and still in the closet, every day is a risk. Of course he wants safety and stability in a dream.

The elevator door slides open, and Nursey tumbles out of it, arms full of bags. "Yo, bros," he calls.

Bitty bustles over and takes one of the bags. "You get everything? Sorry I couldn't ask Rans and Holster."

"Pssh." Nursey rolls their eyes. "I can find things."

"You can't find your ass with both hands, Derek Nurse."

"I find yours no problem," Nursey says, swatting Bitty's ass with a newly freed hand when Bitty turns to take the bags into the kitchenette.

Bitty freezes and glares over his shoulder. Not his half-teasing glare, either. This one has real snap, and Nursey looks contrite. "Sorry, Bits," they murmur. Bitty nods and starts unloading ingredients for what's either going to be the world's deadliest batch of cookies or its sweetest batch of Somnacin.

Jack feels like he's falling into his body from a great height. Like waking up from a dream used to feel, before he dreamed for a living. He blinks at Lardo. "Colline Blanche." Lardo blinks back. "The location. It's this tiny ski resort two and a half hours northwest of Montréal. We went there on vacation once, my parents and Kenny and me. Kind of a dump, honestly; we only went because Papa used to go with _his_ parents, and he's a sentimental fucker. It had these tiny cabins in a row. My parents had one, and Kenny and I had the one next door. He said it was the best vacation he ever had. Mentioned it both times he came to Samwell." Something inside Jack clicks like the last tumbler of a lock. "That's the place."

Lardo gives a satisfied hum and writes _Colline Blanche_ on the top of the page, circling it once and making a large X through the other options. "Get me pictures of when you were there together. I'll get Rans and Holster on the research, send Ford up there to get a feel for it." She wanders into the kitchenette, where Nursey is "helping" Bitty with whatever he's making, mostly knocking things over while being as obnoxiously in Bitty's space as possible. Bitty keeps laughing, but it sounds like his "I'm one chuckle away from breaking a pie plate over your head" laugh.

Lardo hops up onto the counter. "How was your meeting with Fiona?"

Nursey groans dramatically and leaves off bothering Bitty to slump next to Lardo. "Tedious and unnecessary." They brighten. "Like Fiona!"

"Nursey," Jack chides gently. Their team occupies a precious position in the dreamshare community. They can't afford enemies.

"That should have been a fifteen-minute Skype call," Nursey says, unapologetic. "Instead I schlepped out to friggin' _Yonkers_ to listen to her monologue for an hour about how superior her team is to ours."

Lardo rolls her eyes. "By which she means how superior her _architect_ is."

Nursey spins to face her. They take her hands and look at her with an intense sincerity they rarely let the others see. "I would take anything you finger-painted when you were five over her uninspired Bauhaus derivatives any day."

Lardo blushes and covers it by kicking Nursey in the shins.

Nursey laughs and drops her hands, pivoting to standing beside her. "By the way, Bits," they say, "Fiona asked me to tell Thrasher that she's got a job for him if he's interested."

Bitty rolls his eyes so hard it must hurt. "Like she doesn't know damn well that _Thrasher_ only works for Jack. And as if I'd take a job with her while she's hiring Bill Rushford's homophobic ass." He clucks his tongue and presets the oven to 500, which can't be right, can it? What bakes at 260°C ? "That nickname. If I'd had any idea it was gonna _stick_ —"

"We can't help it, Bits," Lardo says. "We're mad jelly of your adorable totem."

"But folks think I'm some violent maniac!" Bitty wails. "Thrashers are _passerines_. My totem is a damn _pie bird_. My reputation is ruined."

Lardo laughs and snags Bitty as he goes past. She kisses the top of his head before jumping off the counter and heading toward the work table. "Yo, Nursey, tell me about this fingerpainting I did when I was five."

Jack chuckles as he watches them retreat across the office. He looks at Bitty. "We good?" he asks quietly.

Bitty flaps his hands at Jack. "Yes, Mr. Zimmermann. Even though y'all still live to chirp me for no reason, I suppose we're good." He takes off his apron and points at the tray sitting on the counter. "Now, if you'll excuse me, this Georgia boy is feeling a need to call his mama. You willing to put that muffin tray in the oven when it beeps?"

"Sure." Jack peers at the tray. "What are they?"

Bitty laughs. "Somnacin edibles, believe it or not."

Jack stares at the tray and is glad, for the millionth time, that Bitty's on their side.

*

**THEN: January 2018**

"So, bro," Lardo said as she dropped next to Jack on his couch, "don't listen to Shitty."

"I never do," Jack lied easily. The man in question was knocking around Jack's kitchen, claiming he was making a dinner that would "make our Itty Bitty proud." Given Shitty's level of culinary prowess, Bitty would be proud of him for not setting the kitchen on fire.

Lardo shoved his shoulder and laughed. "Look, any day now—" She grimaced. "—maybe today—Shitty's going to start bugging you to bring me in on whatever you two are doing."

Jack's stomach sank like lead. "Lardo—"

She raised her hand. "And that's why I'm saying don't listen. Because he's going to claim that the secrecy is coming between us, and that I need to know." She shook her head. "But it's _not_ coming between us, and I _don't_ need to know."

Jack sat back, blinking. "You don't?"

Lardo shrugged. "I'm curious. Whatever you're doing is obviously interesting and exciting, so yeah, I'd love to know. But I think it's also dangerous and maybe illegal, so I get why you don't want me to." She put her hand on Jack's. "All I need to know is that you've given me Shitty back." She glanced toward the kitchen, where Shitty was whistling and making ominous clanking noises. Lardo's expression softened, and she kept looking in Shitty's direction as she said, "He kisses me goodbye before he leaves for work in the morning. When he comes home at night and complains about his day, it's 'normal working dude' stuff, not 'one bad file away from a meltdown' stuff." She looked back at Jack, and her expression didn't change. "You did that, and I'm grateful, and I don't need to know anything else."

"Maybe someday," he said.

She squeezed his hand. "Whenever, bro. Or don't. I don't care." She shrugged. "Keep yourselves out of trouble, yeah?"

Jack snorted. "We try."

Lardo let out a slow, relieved breath. She settled against the arm of the couch and planted her feet in Jack's lap. Jack picked up the closest one and started rubbing it. Lardo groaned and let her head drop onto the arm of the couch. "I dreamed about this conversation," she said.

"Yeah?" Jack kept a steady rhythm and pressure against Lardo's foot. He'd accumulated a shelf of books on dream interpretation and had come to regret never taking Samwell's popular class on it. He personally considered dreams the mental equivalent of emptying your pockets before you did laundry. But other people believed in dream interpretation, and some people who didn't consciously believe in it subconsciously expected certain things to happen in dreams. Belief and expectation were powerful tools in dreamshare. Jack moved down to Lardo's arch. "Want to tell me about it?" he asked. She lifted her head, surprised. He grinned sheepishly. "I'm, uh, into dream theory lately?"

Lardo stared at him, assessing, and then shrugged as a horrifying cacophony arose from the kitchen. "Why the hell not?" she said. "We got time."

Lardo spun a story about walking with Jack across the bridge in Monet's _Water Lily Pond_ while he explained that he and Shitty were secretly running around America stealing art from private collectors and donating it to museums.

Jack laughed—until her words truly caught up with him. "We were _in_ the painting?"

"Yeah, man." She grinned. "Most of my dreams are like that. Like... walking through paintings. Complete with brush strokes and bumps in the canvas. It's wild."

Jack's mind raced. More than anything, he'd argued with dreamshare veterans about architects. Of course that they needed people who could build dreamscapes, but why only use architects? Ariadne was amazing, playing easily with the boundaries of reality, moving beyond what was capable in waking life. The other architects he'd worked with, despite their love of Penrose stairs and Escher loops, had been hopelessly staid, sticking to buildings and shapes recognizable from the real world.

These were _dreams,_ so it didn't matter if they were true-to-life. In fact, he imagined that the dreams would work better if they _weren't_ true to life. He'd had his share of weird dreams, and the most accurate ones weren't the most believable. So why did it _have_ to be architects? Why not painters and sculptors? Hell, why not poets and novelists?

The answer, which Eames had hissed in Jack's ear the last time Jack and Dom went around on the matter, was, "Are you out of your bloody mind? Do you _want_ to piss off the architects? _I_ don't want to piss off the architects. That is how you end up a smear on the pavement, love, and we can all say it was nice knowing you."

Still. Lardo was one of the best artists Jack knew, and he wasn't saying that because she was one of his best friends. Why not see what she could do in a dreamscape? "If I described a hypothetical to you," he said, "can you tell me how you'd paint it?"

*

Jack hated going under with no one else in the room. People did it all the time, but he didn't trust himself yet. The conscious parts of his mind scared him enough; who knew the ways he could get lost in the subconscious parts?

But he had Lardo's dreamscape, sketched out on the back of a roll of 4th of July wrapping paper she had no memory of buying, and he didn't want to share it with anyone until he was sure of it.

He'd outlined his newest job in the broadest terms: a hurt child who'd never recovered from his sister's death had grown into a bitter man determined to spread the suffering for his loss. Lardo has created a playground, with the equipment sized up to accommodate adults, twisting and looping on itself in a way that felt like an intentional part of the design, rather than a trick to fool projections. After an hour of dream-time, Jack felt ecstatic, like he'd gotten fifteen years younger in the past five minutes.  Between Lardo’s dreamscape and Eames’ forge of the mark’s long-dead sister, they'd get the information they'd been hired for, he was certain of it. And when the job was done, he'd get Lardo as his permanent architect. He was certain of that, too.

* * *

**Now: March 2021**

"Jack Zimmermann, you are a Grade A certified _mess_ ," Ransom announces as he and Holster drop into the chairs on either side of Jack.

Jack looks up from the latest information Shitty's smuggled out of Olmsted, Newsome, and Thao. He looks at his point men, who never look entirely serious even when they're entirely serious, and decides that, despite their melodramatic entrance, they mean business. He puts down the file and gives them his full attention. "Thank you, gentlemen. I feel so loved."

Holster makes a raspberry and waves his hand. "Please. You want love, go to Chowder or Shitty. _We_ are tasked with keeping you, and the other members of this team, alive, sane, and out of jail."

"It is therefore our sacred obligation," Ransom says, "to declare that you, Jack Zimmermann, are cruising fast toward a place where you will not be one or more of those things."

"Guys—"

"Shut up and listen, Jack," Ransom says, and wow, okay, _now_ he looks serious. "Do you remember when you brought us into dreamshare?"

Jack snorts. "You mean do I remember when you muscled your way into dreamshare by telling me that I was no good at running my own life and by the way, we don't know what a PASIV is, but we can get you one for cheap?"

Holster flaps his hand again, more dismissively. "To-may-to, to-mah-to."

"The thing is," Ransom continues, "you're repeating those behaviors. The ones that made us think we needed to step in and save you from yourself."

Jack's amusement is rapidly calcifying. "Go on."

Holster says, "One: you're _way_ more involved than usual in literally every aspect of the dream. Some might say you're micromanaging."

"Some _have_ said you're micromanaging," Ransom says, and Holster's cough sounds like " _Nursey_."

"Two: you're not sleeping."

"I have too much to _do_ —"

"Well, you have a _lot_ to do," Holster says, and Jack realizes that he's supposed to be the good cop here. He's not doing a great job. "Everything else, you have a team for. An amazing team that would do anything you asked us for. But you have to _ask us for it_.

"Three: the idea of working with Parse is, like, obviously messing you up big time. Are you keeping up with your therapy and your exercises?"

Jack rolls his eyes and says, "I do the exercises when I have time." Under the combined weight of Holster and Ransom's glares, he amends, "I'll make more time." They look slightly mollified. "But I can't be in therapy anymore. I can't explain dreamshare to a therapist."

"So don't," Rans says. "Go back to your old therapist from Samwell. Tell her you have to see your ex because of a hockey thing. Maybe that'll be enough. I don't know. But if you want to talk about more stuff, we, uh, here—" He reaches into his ever-present job file and pulls out a folded-up piece of notebook paper. "We took the liberty of finding therapists who are in the dreamshare know."

Jack stares at him, jaw dropped. He reaches out and takes the paper. "I don't know why, but this may be the most disturbing thing you've ever found for me."

"Thanks," Holster says proudly.

"Promise you'll make an appointment with _someone_ ," Ransom says.

He nods. "I promise."

Holster slaps his palms against his thighs. "Good. We got human traffickers to catch. Ain't nobody got time for Kent Parson's shit. The real one _or_ the one in your head."

Jack absolutely will not disagree with that. He'd kind of like it on a T-shirt.

* * *

**THEN: March 2018**

Jack's eyes stayed closed longer with each blink. Which was why he could be forgiven for not noticing that, between closing his eyes and opening them again, Ransom's laptop had replaced his own in front of him. On the screen, a PowerPoint slide announced "Adulting Shit with Ransom and Holster."

"What," Jack said. Holster leaned across him and pressed play. "Guys, I don't have time—"

He _didn't._ He was behind on researching their latest mark, and the forger he'd hired was being an asshole about Lardo's build. He had too much to get done in too little time for distractions.

Rans slapped a hand over Jack's mouth, and he didn't have a rebuttal for that.

It was one of those ridiculous presentations like Rans and Holster had done in college, complete with fabricated statistics and shaky phone camera videos. This one was like an old-school PSA and was full of advice about the importance of proper nutrition, hygiene, and sleep schedules for "the young bro living on their onesome for perhaps the first time ever." Embarrassingly, the videos were all of _him_ , in full-on captain mode, pleading with Bittle to eat more protein, stop using up the hot water, and go to sleep before midnight for once.

When the video ended, Jack tried to act unimpressed, but the smile tugging the corners of his mouth gave him away. "I am capable of taking care of myself," he said.

"Jack Laurent Zimmermann," Holster said in the voice he used to use during SMH court, "how long has it been since you slept?"

"Ate food other than microwaved chicken tenders or protein bars?" Ransom said.

"Changed your socks?"

Jack opened his mouth in protest, but he couldn't answer those questions.

"Mm-hmm," Holster said as he and Ransom exchanged a look full of unreadable significance.

Ransom leaned forward. "Listen, Jack, whatever you and Shitty and Lardo are doing, you clearly aren't doing it well—"

Jack bristled. "We are very good—" he started.

Rans held up his hand. "I'm sure you're great at whatever it is. But you're awful at keeping it organized."

Jack leaned back in his chair. He _was_ doing too much, being extractor and point at the same time. Dom and Arthur had warned him that it was a bad idea, but the only point he trusted was Arthur, who only worked with Eames these days. "It's complicated," he said, wincing.

"We figured," Rans said, nodding.

"Which is why," Holster said, "we humbly offer the services of… ourselves."

" _No_." Jack jerked forward. If he'd been standing, his knees would've buckled. "Absolutely not."

"Why not?" Rans demanded.

Because it was _unthinkable_. Bad enough that he'd dragged Shitty and Lardo into this. Shitty and Lardo were as close to anarchists as two people could get who were a Harvard-educated lawyer and an assistant at a hoity-toity art gallery.

Holster and Ransom's lives had been set the moment they circled each other on the Faber ice and formed a telepathic D-man soulbond. Those lives were consultancy gigs and med school and a CPA. It was side-by-side suburban houses and _no one,_ maybe not even their eventual spouses, being sure if they were a polyamorous couple or endearingly codependent best friends. They were habitually ridiculous and periodically unbearable, but they were inherently _good_ in a way that Jack wouldn't sully.

"The things we're involved in," he began carefully, forcing himself to vocalize his concerns like his therapist taught him, instead of yelling "Because I'm the captain and I said so!" and storming off.

"Guns?" Holster cut in, face betraying no judgment.

Jack blinked. Dreamshare had gained a measure of respectability over the last five years, so guns weren't as obligatory as they'd once been. Still, having a few on-hand could be useful. "Yes," he said.

Ransom nodded. "Drugs?"

Jack grimaced. "Not the kind you're thinking of, but, yeah."

"People?"

The automatic denial was on his tongue, but then he paused to consider. "It's not—we're not trafficking. But we do, euh, a fair amount of researching people, setting up interviews, digging up information. Getting people where we want them to be. Which is not always where they want to be." He shook his head. "It's dangerous. And—" He snorted a humorless laugh. "Extralegal."

Shitty no longer allowed them to call dreamshare "illegal," because technically no laws prohibited it. Many activities associated with it were illegal, but the act of rummaging through someone's subconscious while they were unaware that they were having a dream that another person was controlling was not. ("Only because no one knows to make a law about it," Lardo had pointed out. "Yeah, and who's gonna _tell them_?" Shitty'd retorted.)

Sighing dramatically, Ransom switched windows on the laptop screen, revealing a complex spreadsheet titled "Shit We Know How to Find." Jack was impressed and dismayed to spot tabs labeled FIREARMS, SUBSTANCES, and UNSAVORY CHARACTERS. "Guys," he said weakly.

"Look," Holster said, "I know Toronto's most promising future physician and a Jewish hockey has-been from Buffalo seem like unlikely criminal suppliers, but we _know things_. We've never had the need to purchase or create a fake identity, for instance, but we could do it if we needed to."

"I'm not sure we could tell you _how_ we know the stuff we know," Ransom added. "But we do, and it seems a shame to let it go to waste."

" _No_!" Jack threw up his hands. "I'm not bringing you into this because you want an excuse to buy—" He froze, staring at the screen until he could no longer deny what it said. "You know where to get a PASIV?"

"Bro," Holster said, laughing, "we don't know what that _is_. But we met a lady, who knew a guy, who'd heard of a source, and…" He shrugged. "That's how it happens, man. People mention where to find things, and we write it down."

Jack scrubbed both hands over his face. "Portable Automated Somnacin IntraVenous Device," he said. He lowered his hands and looked at them. "PASIV."

"I caught most of the words in that," Rans said, "but I didn't understand it."

Jack blew out a long breath. "This is—I mean it, guys. This is serious blue pill stuff." He made a face. "I think Lardo called it that."

Holster and Ransom grinned at him. "Never change, Rock Lord," Holster said.

"Now, come on," Ransom said, "show us the Matrix. We got illegal shit to buy."

*

Two hours later, with Ransom and Holster enthusiastically onboard and headed out to get a great deal on a gently used PASIV, Jack sat down to the first real dinner he'd eaten in a week, wriggled his toes in his fresh socks, and sent a text.

 **ME:** Point teams. Is that a thing?

 **ARTHUR:** never has been before. but we've stopped being surprised by anything you do. mazel tov

Jack smiled.

* * *

**Now: March 2021**

"Jack, you ready?"

Jack looks up, a piece of string cheese dangling from his mouth. Not his finest moment. Then again, they lived in a hockey frat, so they've seen each other looking far worse. "For what?" Also, he's confused.

Nursey waves a three-ring binder around and drops next to Jack at the table. The table is a giant industrial-looking door that Ransom and Holster found and Lardo attached to three sawhorses. She swears the style's all the rage, but Jack thinks it makes them look like broke college students who couldn't afford a table. But it's big enough not to be dwarfed by HQ's looming emptiness, big enough for Lardo to take one end for her models while leaving room for the rest of the team to sit at the other end.

Jack has a love-hate relationship with this room. Ransom and Holster scrounged, "rescued," or outright stole the furniture, and Bitty'd brought the equipment in the kitchenette from his apartment. It had helped when the team was getting its feet under it and barely had two nickels to rub together. But they're thriving now. Maybe it's time to buy new decor. An actual table, for starters.

Jack recognizes Nursey's binder. It's the kind they use to organize prep work for a forge. "To tell me what I need to know about Jack Zimmermann and Kent Parson, age 17, so I can do this thing."

Jack squints. "What thing?"

Lardo sets down the piece of foam she's using to construct her model. Chowder puts down his book (they don't need him for this part of the job, but he likes coming in like it's a normal job with regular hours) and Ford the script for the play she's working on. Bitty doesn't _look_ like his focus has changed ("It's chemistry, Jack! If I leave it alone at the wrong time, it blows up!"), but Jack can tell that he's got an ear tuned to the conversation.

Nursey puts their face in line with Jack's and says, slowly, "The. Forge." They make a flourishing gesture. "Jack Zimmermann, age 17, at your service."

"No," Jack scoffs, "that's ridiculous. You're—" He freezes, realizing he has _no idea_ who he'd thought Nursey was going to forge for this job. They'd discussed what had seemed like an excessive number of options, even given Jack's and Nursey's usual predisposition to overthinking things, but he can't remember who—if anyone—they'd decided on. "Why would you forge me?" he demands. " _I'm_ me."

"Well, Jack," Nursey says, rubbing their hands on their pants. "No offense, but your track record with Kent is, uh..."

"It's abysmal, bro," Lardo says.

"And we—I mean, _I_ was thinking that if you—if _Kent_ —"

In all the years Jack's known Nursey, he's never heard them stumble over their words like this. Then he realizes: Nursey's trying to be diplomatic. They're refreshingly awful at it.

"Jack," Bitty says, finally setting down the beaker in his hand, "we can't have your 2009 edition Kent Parson running around when we're trying to extract from actual Kent Parson. He'll snap out of that dream faster'n you can say 'Stanley Cup.'"

Jack's stomach sinks. "You don't want me under at all, do you?"

Bitty tsks. "Course we _want_ you, sugar." And though Jack knows the word doesn't mean anything, that Bitty calls _everyone_ pet names (Bitty calls the _oven_ pet names), the endearment starts to loosen the stone of dread in his gut. "You're one of the best extractors in the business. But I don't think this is a risk we can take." He hesitates for a flicker and then adds, "And then there's the impact on you."

Jack's talked to his therapist about the impact of seeing Kent again when they get to Vegas. He _hasn't_ talked to her, because how can he, about the impact of traipsing around in Kent's unconscious mind. It's possible that a 2009 edition Jack Zimmermann is strolling around Kenny's mind, and Jack can't imagine how he'd react if he ran into it. Or if he _didn't_.

Jack clears his throat. "What's the plan?"

"I go under for you; you and Lardo take my part," Ford says.

It makes sense. Lardo rarely dreams with them on jobs, because she falls prey to the temptation to tweak her design. Marks tend to notice that in ways they don't notice the largest inconsistencies within the dream plot. In dreams, a rainbow-toned hippopotamus on your subway train is more believable in than sliding doors suddenly turning into French doors. Ford going under instead makes sense.

Being benched stings. He's the extractor. He loves it, almost as much as he loves hockey. He's good at it, too—almost as good as he once was at hockey. Being yanked from a job because his first sexual relationship happened in the homophobic crucible of junior hockey, with a boy who'd been as clueless as he was and less concerned with how to avoid trampling each other's hearts? That's a blow.

But if this job goes right, it'll help dismantle a nationwide crime ring. And the fact is that, despite years of therapy and other relationships, Jack isn't over Kenny. Not in the sense that he still loves him, but in the sense that he takes up (literal) room in Jack's head. Bitty's right: they can't have actual Kent running into Jack's Kent projection, or their chance is shot. Kent hasn't entirely forgiven Jack for the things they did to each other the first time around; Jack can't imagine what he'd do if he woke up and discovered that Jack and a bunch of his friends had drugged him and crawled into his dreams for the purpose of convincing him to look into his team's possible illegal activities.

In the years since the Fischer job, people have discovered that inception is relatively easy, if you stick to simple concepts. "I will split up my father's empire" = a tough sell. "I will check out Aces' criminal activities" = fairly easy, especially if Kenny already suspects.

Jack bets he does; he was always the first to suspect when someone was dangerous or untrustworthy. Jack wishes he'd understood back then what that implies about Kenny's childhood. It doesn't excuse the way Kenny treated Jack the last few times they saw each other, but it might've changed the way Jack treated him in the Q, which might've changed the endings for them both.

"All right," he tells Ford. "If I'm doing your job, you're explaining it to me. Again."

* * *

**THEN: September 2018**

The "Welcome Back, Chris and Caitlin!" banner over the door to Jack's balcony was six feet long ("Hey, Bits, it's taller than—" "Before you finish that sentence, Mr. Knight, think about whether you'd like to eat my baked goods ever again.") and bright purple. It hung across from the hot pink "Congratulations, Chowder!" banner, because Rans and Holster had argued for ten minutes over which name to use, and by the time they had retreated to their corners in disgust, Jack had ordered one of each.

The mood was as ebullient as the bubbles in Jack's sparkling grape juice. (They'd finished a job today and, despite what anyone said, Jack's team agreed that consuming alcohol less than twelve hours before or after taking Somnacin led to "gross dreams and grosser hangovers") Jack leaned against the back of the couch, his hip bumping Bitty's shoulder. Bitty smiled up at him, and as Jack struggled around his suddenly tight chest to smile back, Farmer dragged Chowder to the front of the room and clanged her plastic champagne flute with a plastic knife to get everyone's attention.

"Okay, okay, thank you!" Farmer said, laughing, when the cheers from the old SMH gang went on for longer than good taste recommended. "Thanks for throwing this together for us. I know it's only been four months, but we missed you guys so much! And Chris tried to sneak us in and out of Boston without seeing anyone—" Scattered booing rang out around the room. "So thanks for not letting that happen."

"Got your back, girl!" Lardo called, and Farmer grinned at her.

Chowder laughed. "Sorry! I'm so super stressed about the presentation tomorrow, gosh! But we've missed you guys a lot! And it's super great being back!"

"Tell us about the project!" Nurse shouted from the front of the crowd.

Beside them, Ford cheered. "Yeah, Mr. Big-shot Scine Fellow!"

"Hey, he doesn't have it _yet_ ," Farmer admonished, the most superstitious of them all.

"Oh!" Chowder blinked, looking startled. "You sure? It's boring sciencey stuff."

"Shut your face, Christopher Chow!" Ransom hollered, earning startled looks from the adultier adults in the room.

Chowder grinned. "Okay, uh, it's a device that facilitates communication with people in unconscious brainwave states."

Jack _did not react_. Didn't look at his team. But he felt them around the room, _not reacting_ just as hard.

Only then Shitty yelled, "What? Like, people who are asleep?"

Chowder frowned faintly. "Oh, gosh, I designed it for people in comas, but I guess you could?"

Chowder talked for a couple minutes about the device (which he'd named the Nu-Complex Communication Interface and called "Nicci"), and Jack could tell that he was holding himself back on other things he wanted to say. A few minutes later, Farmer forcibly dragged Chowder into the crowd as he and Tango engaged in an increasingly technical and, as far as Jack could tell, off-topic debate about... something.

Jack kept a close eye on him after that, looking for an opening, but Chowder was never alone. If he wasn't surrounded by the SMH gang or former Comp. Sci. professors and classmates, it was Farmer, who seemed to be hovering more than usual—and who seemed pissed at herself for doing it.

Jack wasn't awash in free time, either. This was his apartment, so technically he had a share of hosting duties, although Bitty had made it clear what would happen if Jack got in his way. He spotted Chowder alone by the food table— _one of_ the food tables ("A guest should never be more more than ten steps from a nibble, Jack.")—twenty minutes after the speeches. But by the time he'd refilled Professor Whatshisname's drink, diverted one of the freshmen (dear god, they were babies) away from where he'd been mansplaining plate tectonics to Farmer's geology-major younger sister, and stopped Rans from challenging the Scine Foundation representative to a hockey stick fencing match, Chowder had disappeared again.

Jack finally spotted him on the balcony, leaning contentedly against the railing. Which made Jack feel like he could take a second and bump his shoulder against Shitty's. "Subtle," he said.

Shitty scoffed. "Like you weren't thinking the same thing, my man. Like you guys don't gripe, like, fucking _endlessly_ about how you want better communication between dreamside and topside. We were all thinking it."

"Of course we were, Shits," Jack said, rolling his eyes. "But you're the only one tactless enough to say it."

Shitty shrugged. "Not my fault you're all fucking chicken."

Jack laughed hugely and clapped Shitty's shoulder. "It's like you don't know what I do for a living." He squeezed the shoulder under his hand and let go. "We need a forger more than we need that, anyway. Catch you later?"

"Like I could go anywhere." Shitty gestured at where Lardo was deep in conversation with Ford and Chowder's mom. "I for one welcome our small, excitable overlords. Which reminds me: Lards wants to bring Ford on. Contract basis. She knows people, and it'd be good to have retrieval personnel."

Jack wasn't a hundred percent sure what 'retrieval personnel' entailed, but he trusted Lardo unquestioningly. "Yeah, okay. Make it happen." He slipped onto the balcony and leaned next to Chowder, sipping at his water and waiting.

Chowder seemed to _glow_ with excitement in the faint light spilling from the apartment and the general ambiance of Boston light pollution. He also looked exhausted. "Hey, Jack!" he said, far more softly than Jack expected.

"Hey, Chow. Wanna talk about it?"

Chowder laughed nervously. "Gosh! It's like pregame jitters all over again! Only times like, twenty, because I don't have the team supporting me. I mean, you'll be there, but you won't _be there_. You know?"

Jack did know. He'd felt the same way the first time he went into a dream without anyone he knew. Sure, he was part of a team, but he wasn't sure he could trust them. His anxiety had spiked to its highest since rehab, and he'd almost bailed at the last minute. Only remembering the danger the rest of the team would be in if they went in one down had gotten his feet moving.

Jack rolled his water bottle in his hands. His instinct, by nature and by virtue of having been Chowder's captain for a year, was to probe. To fix. Was Chowder nervous about the demonstration? The thought of not getting the fellowship? The thought of _getting_ the fellowship? But Chowder wouldn't respond well to that.

"I tried hard not to play favorites," Jack said quietly, not looking at Chowder, "but of the guys from your year, you were the easiest to be a captain for." He heard Chowder's soft intake of breath, and the quiet rustle that meant Chowder had turned his way, but he didn't look.

Saying things like this didn't come easily to Jack. In hockey—likely, he guessed, in any hypermasculine environment—emotions were vulnerabilities. The guy who admitted how he was feeling "lost" the argument. There'd been an unfortunate amount of that in his family, despite his mom's efforts, because his father had been so thoroughly steeped in it. To open up to Chowder like this, yeah, it made Jack twitch. But it was worth it for the way Chowder's shoulders started to come down from around his ears.

"I could never figure out how to really get through to Dex and Nurse. Nurse had had too many years of white dudes telling them what to do to be comfortable around me. And Dex—" Jack gave a dry laugh. "Dex was like I was before rehab. Convinced that a 'real man' didn't show weakness, or ask for help, or need people." He shook his head. "What a crock, eh?"

Chowder sighed. "Yeah."

"But you." Jack caught Chowder's eye and grinned. "You had a goal—" He ignored Chowder's groan. "—from day one, and you never minded asking for help in getting it. And your heart is... it's so _big_ , Chris. Since rehab, I've tried to be a better person, but I felt like I had to leave that off the ice. You taught me how to keep being a better person _while_ I was being a better hockey player."

Chowder stared crying, small, hiccupping sobs that were part stunned laughter. "Aw, jeez, Jack!"

Jack shrugged. "Sorry I made you cry. Not sorry I said it."

They stood in silence for a long moment. Jack breathed in the evening air and watched Boston do its Friday night thing beneath them. He was contemplating going inside again when Chowder whispered, "Can I tell you a secret? _No one_ knows. Not even Cait."

Jack blinked. "Of course."

"I feel like I'm going to get a call tomorrow morning telling me they made a mistake, and I'm not really up for the fellowship."

Jack nodded. He got that in a big way. He remembered the dread that had underlain his excitement about starting Samwell, dread that hadn't dissipated until he'd arrived at his freshman dorm and been shown to an actual room with his actual name on the door.

"Man, you're _not_."

Chowder and Jack turned sharply. Nursey was leaning against the wall of the building, one leg up casually like they were posing for a photoshoot, fancy-ass craft beer cradled in one hand. Jack had no idea how long they'd been standing there.

"Yeah, I _know_ ," Chowder huffed, "but I mean—"

Nursey shook their head. "Don't torture yourself like that, Chowder. You know how good Nicci is. Hell, _I_ know how good Nicci is, and I know squat about robots. Every professor you asked to be part of your application process gave you a glowing recommendation. You know they did."

"Yeah," Chowder said. It was hard to tell in this low light, but Jack was pretty sure he was blushing. "Even Professor Oliveira, and I thought he was in the Galápagos all summer and couldn't be reached!"

Jack smiled. "See?" he said, squeezing Chowder's shoulder. "You'll be great."

"Okay," Chowder said. He looked like he was pumping himself up like he used to before games. "Yeah! I can do this!" He pushed off from the railing and flashed Jack and Nursey a smile that looked more like his usual bright beam. "But I'm gonna find Cait and head out. I have to be there _so_ early tomorrow, you don't even know." He held out his hand to Jack, who ignored it in favor of a brief but sincere hug. "Thanks for hosting, Jack!"

"You're always welcome here, Chow," Jack said sincerely. "And if you and Farmer ever decide to move back to the area, you can have a place on my team. In a heartbeat." The gears in Jack's mind were already turning, calculating the best way to get Chowder and Nicci into dreamshare. But he recognized that tonight—and this trip in general—wasn't the time to bring it up.

"Yeah, cool!" Chowder nodded excitedly, pulling out of the hug. "I don't know what innovation consultants do, but that sounds fun, being on a team with you again!" He pulled Nursey into a longer hug and then bounded off the balcony, already calling for Farmer.

The instant the door closed behind Chowder, Nursey sank onto a chair and kicked their feet up onto the railing. "Want to know another secret?" they asked, offering Jack one of the most shit-eating grins in the history of shit-eating grins.

Jack was pretty sure the answer was _no,_ given the way Nursey was looking at him—half mischief, half challenge, a look he'd seen many times at Samwell. He shrugged one shoulder. "If you feel like telling me one."

Nursey grinned wider. "Professor Hérman Oliveira, PhD, was in the Galápagos all summer and couldn't be reached by the Scine Foundation, which would have created an application gap that would've disqualified Chowder from consideration for the fellowship."

Jack sipped from his nearly empty water bottle, buying time phrase the question in the least asshole way possible. "If I recall from the website, the Scine recommendation process isn't just a letter. He would've had an interview with a selection committee representative."

Jack didn't realize what was happening until it was done. Nursey's spine curled down, and their eyes grew less focused. But at the same time their shoulders lifted slightly, and those hazy eyes looked at Jack straight on—a man at the top of his field, used to being heard and respected. "It's surprisingly easy to spoof a Samwell phone number," Nursey informed him. Only it _wasn't_ Nursey. Gone was the twenty-something Black New Yorker whose chirps were half obscure poetry and half profanity that put even Shitty to shame. In their place sat a seventy-year-old Brazilian robotics expert with a side passion for turtles. If they'd been talking over the phone, Jack would never have guessed that he wasn't talking to Professor Oliveira. "We here at Samwell are so proud of Christopher. His work on Nicci was exemplary, and when fully implemented, it will advance biomedical robotics by at least ten years."

Jack stared in astonishment. "You interviewed with a Scine representatives as one of Chowder's professors, even though what you know about the field couldn't fill a skate? And they _believed you_?"

Nursey grinned wide. "I'm sure you don't want Angry Brown Person Rant #18, but I'm a multiracial, multigender, pansexual, interfaith Black dude who grew up on the Upper West Side, spent three years at Andover, and played one of the whitest, most homophobic sports in the northern hemisphere. You may never meet anyone better at code switching and changing face." They laughed softly, though Jack heard the bite in it. "Figured I might as well get some good out of it."

Jack nodded in acknowledgment. His mind was whirling. If Nursey could do that in waking life, what could they do in a dream? "Listen," Jack said urgently, "I've got a job you might be interested in. A position on my team. Intermittent work, so you could still write and teach, but the pay is excellent—" (Now that they'd finally figured out how to pay themselves from their marks' ill-gotten gains) "—and the work is exciting. You interested in hearing about it?"

Nursey squinted. "Would I have to move to Boston?" Three years at Andover and four at Samwell had done nothing to dull Nursey's inherent New Yorkerness. They'd moved back after graduation, and Jack couldn't imagine them leaving again.

"You'd have to travel, domestic and international, and we'd want you in Boston fairly frequently before a job to get ready, but, no. You could stay in Manhattan."

Nursey nodded. "Then I'm interested." They paused. "Gotta say, this is not the reaction I expected to what I told you."

Jack shook his head. "You'll get plenty of that from Chowder if he ever finds out. Me, I'm a guy with a job to get done."

Nursey nodded, though they'd gone gray at the reminder of what was in store if word of their scheming got to Chowder. "Chill," they said, and Jack bit back a laugh at the realization that, even after a year of rarely seeing Nursey, he recognized that as a thank-you chill.

*

Chowder won the Scine Fellowship. The assembled Wellies yelled so loudly that they almost got kicked out. Jack collected contact info for the runner-up, a kind-eyed young woman from Chicago who'd built a pocket-sized device that helped reduce the duration and severity of panic attacks.

A month later, as autumn settled in for real, Jack was reading in bed, head drooping over the pages of a Freudian dream analysis book (that man had _issues_ ) when his phone lit up with an incoming text.

 **CHOWDER:** were u srs?

Jack scrambled for his phone.

 **ME:** Any time, now or in the future. We have a place for you here. And Nicci. And Farmer, if she wants.

Jack had no idea what role Farmer might play, but they could find a place for a smart, organized person.

 **CHOWDER:** thx  
**CHOWDER:** i LOVE this fellowship.  
**CHOWDER:** but ppl r ALREADY asking what i'm doing after, and i have no idea?

 **ME:** Name the day, and we'll be waiting for you.

When Jack checked his texts the next morning, he laughed so hard his sides ached.

 **CHOWDER:** July 16, 2019

Jack took and sent one of what Bitty called his "grandpa selfies," complete with thumbs-up.

 **ME:** We'll be here.

* * *

**Now: April 2021**

Jack looks at Lardo and focuses on breathing. In for five, hold for five, out for six, rest for six. _You're not mad at Lardo. None of this is her fault. She's just the messenger._ "When you say 'out for the foreseeable future,'" he says, proud of how steady his voice is.

Lardo huffs, clearly as pissed at Ransom and Holster as Jack is. She's settled in at the big HQ table, a can of beer sitting unopened in front of her. "I mean that Holster's new girlfriend Linda—"

Jack squints. " _Ransom's_ new girlfriend Linda."

Shitty snorts as he drops into the chair next to Lardo's and slings his arm around her back. "I keep telling you, brahs, you do _not_ want to stare into that particular abyss."

"Huh," Jack says and then makes a "go on" gesture at Lardo.

" _Linda_ got a promotion at work. She made a celebration breakfast yesterday morning."

Jack and Shitty wince. Linda is great. Of all the women Ransom or Holster (or both; Shitty's absolutely right about that abyss) have dated, Linda's fast on her way to being a favorite, and she's only been around a couple months. But of the many wonderful skills and attributes she has, cooking is not among them. And it doesn't need to be. Unfortunately, she insists she's an excellent cook and acts accordingly. The result is often disastrous.

Today the result is Jack's point men down with food poisoning the day before their most important job ever.

"Think they'll still feel sick tomorrow?" Nursey asks from their spot next to Ford.

Ford shoves their shoulder. "Even if they're not, no way we're letting them take Somnacin while they're recovering from food poisoning."

"So," Jack says, his mind rearranging pieces on the board, "can you do it with four?"

"Chyeah." Nursey looks offended that Jack has to ask. "Not like we needed all six of us down there."

"Derek does the forge," Ford says, ticking them off on her fingers. "Bits pokes around for any information Parse has. Lardo and I distract the projections. No worries, Mon Capitaine."

"Larissa Duan, what is going on with you?" Bitty demands. "You look _awfully_ squirrely."

All eyes snap to Lardo. "Lards?" he asks. Her answering smile looks distinctly sheepish, and Jack's stomach clenches.

Lardo sits up straighter. She and Shitty share one of those private smiles that reassure Jack they're as perfect for each other as they've ever been, and that he's absolutely, in no way, envious of. "It's fine, Bits," she says. She runs a hand through her hair. "As long as we're fucking up Jack's glorious plan, now's as good a time as any to tell you that I can't go under for a while."

Jack's brain starts catastrophizing. Lardo is sick. Lardo is _dying. Shit_. He's going to lose one of his best friends _and_ one of the best architects in the business. Tabarnak, why did he bring her into this shitshow?

No, the anxiety is telling him that. _Think,_ he scolds himself. _Ask. Observe. What's really going on?_

Jack's gaze falls on Shitty. Shitty doesn't look like a man whose beloved wife is sick or dying. In fact, Shitty looks like kyriarchy's been banned for his birthday. He's looking at Lardo with heart-eyes the likes of which Jack hasn't seen since their wedding day.

" _Bro_ " Shitty breathes, stretching his arm around Jack but not quite able to reach Lardo. "For real?"

Lardo looks at him with a soft expression Jack's _never_ seen. She nods. "For really real, bro."

The penny drops for everyone at once. Lardo disappears under a pile of teammates shouting about names and due dates and nursery color schemes. Lardo doesn't try to push them off, but she laughs and protests, "People, I peed on the stick an _hour_ ago. Lemme find a damned obstetrician before we start talking about _names,_ oh my god."

Jack's eyes meet Shitty's in the pile, and they smile at each other. Shitty looks over the damned moon.

Lardo moves Shitty's face and Nursey's arm enough to look at Jack. "So, yeah. I'm out, boss-man."

It's amazing to Jack: no one moves, but all at once they look more professional. More focused on the job, even while lying on top of Lardo. "Can you do it with three?" Jack asks, voice pinched. He feels conflicted. He's thrilled for Lardo and Shitty, obviously, but he has a job to plan—and it's unraveling before his eyes.

"No," Lardo says immediately, head shaking emphatically.

It _should_ be a simple in-and-out job: see if Kent has information or suspicions about Aces involvement in the crime ring; plant the idea that he should look into it and/or talk to the proper law enforcement authorities; get out. But on the off chance that he's militarized—their research doesn't indicate it, but as dreamshare grows more respectable, it gets harder to track that information—they'll need two people battling hostile projections at all times. That means a third to talk to Kenny and a fourth to search for whatever he might know.

Jack processes that in a fraction of a second. When he reaches the logical conclusion and looks up, it's to everyone watching him with expressions ranging from reserved to distressed.

Despite his best efforts (and his best efforts are nothing to sneeze at), Bitty's never been able to come up with an effective Somnacin formula that Chowder doesn't have a violent allergic reaction to. As for Shitty, it turns out that one of the reasons he's stoned so much of the time is to control awful memories from his adolescence that ambush him whenever he lets his guard down. He dreams with the team a couple times a year, practice dreams under tightly controlled conditions. He never goes in for a job.

Jack gives a weak smile. "It'll be fine," he says. It has to be.

Nursey jumps up and grabs the forge binder from one of the bookcases against the wall. They flip through it while they walk, muttering and barely avoiding tripping over the chair they'd just abandoned. "Oh," they say faintly, blinking at it, "I'm here."

Jack smirks while Ford kicks Nursey's chair away from the table. Bitty's hiding a smile behind his hand, and Jack clears his throat. "What are you doing, Nurse?"

"Trying to remember who else I was thinking of forging for this."

Jack shakes his head. "Keep the forge of me," he insists. "It makes the most sense."

"Jack," Shitty says. Then he stops, unsure how to continue.

"Keep the forge," Jack says again, flashing a quick smile at Shitty. "Go to three levels." Lardo swears quietly. "Remember the Bosch arcade you did for the job with the nannies?"

She grins. " _The Chuck E Cheese of Earthly Delights._ Man, that was great."

"We'll use that for the second level. Nurse, that'll be you as me. Teenage Kent would've eaten that up." He pauses and then rolls his eyes. " _Adult_ Kent would eat it up. Bittle and I can deal with the projections while Ford looks for any information he's got. Then we sell the inception at third level."

"The resort," Lardo says.

Jack nods. "He'll be overstimulated from the noise and lights in the arcade. Maybe the quiet of the third level will make him..." He shrugs. "Maybe he'll be more likely to roll with talking to me."

"Bitty and Nurse on projections while I look for deets again," Ford concludes. Jack nods. As their retrieval specialist, Ford's one of the most keyed in to things that look out of place, look _weird_. It works in the waking world, and it works in dreams.

Jack glances at Bitty, who's chewing his lower lip. "You okay?"

Bittle rolls his eyes. "I think you know the answer to that, Mr. Zimmermann."

Jack shoots Bitty a commiserating smile. Third level practice isn't any more enjoyable than checking practice had been. But it had been necessary then, and it's necessary now—and for the same reasons. Bitty's in therapy—Jack made it a condition of him joining the team—so his anxiety and CPTSD are under better control. Hell, he _admits_ to having anxiety and CPTSD, which is more than he could do when they met. He no longer flinches when Jack comes up behind him or freezes when Holster and Ransom get too close. But the underformed uncertainty of a third level puts people under intense pressure. A resurgence of Bitty's old tendency to collapse under stress would be disastrous.

Plus, Jack likes to think that checking practice, as unpleasant as it was at the time, helped make his and Bitty's relationship what it is today. Maybe third level practice will have the same impact.

The rest of the afternoon is a strange mix of boisterous and subdued. Everyone buckles down to replan the dream, with spontaneous "baby breaks" with Shitty and Lardo. Nursey runs out and buys several bottles of sparkling juice, most of which Lardo guzzles while frantically redesigns levels. Bitty straight-up takes a nap on the red curbside rescue couch in the back of the office (only slightly more comfortable but, according to Bitty, _significantly_ less biohazardous, than the green Haus couch), noise-canceling headphones and sleep mask firmly in place.

Jack does last-minute research on Colline Blanche circa 2007, to make sure nothing bites them in the ass. His and Lardo's approach to dream design tends toward surrealistic and ethereal, but discrepancies can be _so_ jarring that the mark won't accept them. Then Kent's kicking them out of the dream, calling the cops, and never speaking to Jack again.

Jack takes frequent breaks and makes Lardo do the same. He hovers over Bitty, gingerly adjusting the thin blanket whenever it slides down his torso, trying not to let his hands linger on the sliver of clavicle revealed by the slip and twist of Bitty's shirt as he sleeps.

At four o'clock, Lardo throws a piece of foam core at Jack's head and hisses, "Get out of here, Zimmermann, you're a menace." Which is when he realizes he's been staring at her for fifteen minutes.

Jack picks up dinner on his way home, too anxious to cook and fresh out of the leftovers that often appear his refrigerator (Jack has a better kitchen than Bitty, and Bitty is not shy about using it). He drifts through his apartment, cleaning idly but mostly randomly moving stuff and swiping the dust rag across it half-heartedly until dinnertime.

Although he can't say why, he takes his food to his bedroom. He sits on the bed and eats slowly, eyes trained on the framed photos hanging on the opposite wall.

He'd taken the one on the left last year. Holster and Ransom are sacked out on the red office couch. Ransom's against the back, Holster little spooning for all he's worth, gripping Ransom's arm where it drapes over his waist to "keep your clumsy ass off the floor, bro." The couch isn't big enough for both of them, so they form a giant man-blob, knees crooked at physics-defying angles, one of Holster's huge hands dangerously close to Ransom's face.

Bitty hovers beyond the end of the couch, hand over his mouth, eyes wide with dismay at two of his boys sleeping on "that footstool masquerading as a couch." He's oblivious to the oncoming disaster, namely, Shitty creeping across the room with air horn in hand, Lardo and Ford trailing behind him fighting laughter, bright green ear plugs visible in their ears.

The photo on the right is from Hausgiving the year after Jack graduated. The focus is on Bitty, who's being hoisted into the air by all three frogs. Dex is at the head, arms hooked securely under Bitty's armpits, looking proud of this contribution to the team. Nursey's in the middle, one arm over the top of Bitty's waist, the other under it (although, looking at it now, Nursey might be grabbing Bitty's ass). Chowder's at Bitty's feet, and though it doesn't show in the picture, Jack remembers him pushing them like Bitty was skating in midair. Bitty's "Georgia Peach" apron is askew and his hair's a mess from the manhandling. His face is fire-engine red, either from laughing or yelling, and he's trying to scold his captors but laughing too hard for that to carry any weight.

Jack looks at those photos every morning when he wakes up and every night before he falls asleep. But he can't remember the last time he studied them this thoroughly, let himself take in the way the sunlight in the Haus photo makes Bitty's hair glow gold, the way the sight of Ransom and Holster wrapped up in each other calms his anxiety faster than any breathing exercise, the way his heart clenches when he looks at Dex, smiling and engaged, happy to be part of this band of miscreants.

Jack's phone alarm chimes at 9:15. He reluctantly tears his eyes from the photos, cleans up his dinner detritus, and gets ready to return to HQ. Grab his go-bag. Collect the key to the PASIV cabinet. Shoes. Jacket. Wallet. Car keys. Lock the front door. Elevator to the garage. One foot in front of the other, one play at a time. Just like hockey. The comparison barely hurts anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I'm sorry they're called "totems," too. That's the way the _Inception_ canon crumbles.


	2. Chapter 2

**THEN: April 2018**

When Lardo woke up, she had enough time to yank the cannula out of her hand before she jackknifed and threw up into the bucket by her chair. Ransom wasn't so lucky.

"That's _it_ , Jack," he said hoarsely, offering a silent _thank you_ as he removed his cannula and accepted a bottle of mouthwash from Holster. "I'm not going under again until we have a consistent chemist."

"That's not—" Jack pushed himself slowly upright, waiting until the first (and hopefully worst) wave of nausea passed. "Maybe Farah was having an off day when she made this."

"You said that last time," Holster said flatly, looking too miserable to roll his eyes.

"And about Rodrigo the time before," Lardo said. "Who else is on Yusuf's list?"

"No one," Ransom said, voice grim. Yusuf hadn't made the best impression on Jack's team.

"This is the hardest role to fill," Jack said. "There aren't many good ones, and they're all expensive."

Their expenses were minimal. HQ was the top floor of an empty office building ten miles outside Boston city limits, which the owner let them use _gratis_ because having lights on at unpredictable intervals deterred vandals and thieves. Their equipment was sourced at staggeringly low cost via Holster and Ransom's mysterious "Stuff Network." The only compensation Shitty accepted was the knowledge that yet another of his employers' corrupt clients had taken it in the teeth.

Still, they'd chosen an expensive life, and they were figuring out how to pay themselves when their jobs were _against_ the type of filthy rich people and companies that usually hired dreamers. Jack was currently paying them from his accounts, which were considerable but not endless. They didn't have wiggle room for things like a high-level chemist.

"We could recruit from outside the business," Lardo said as they started packing up for the night. "Train them in like you did with us."

Jack whipped his head around. "You can't throw someone into dreamshare and tell them, 'Now make Somnacin.' People could die. People _have_ died."

"So send them to Yusuf for training," Holster said. His nose wrinkled. "Or, no, not Yusuf; he'd be a terrible teacher. But _someone_ at that level wouldn't be an ass to a newbie."

Lardo's small, warm hand landed above Jack's elbow. "We have time," she said. "We're between jobs, and we're doing okay, financially. We have time to do this right."

"Say the word," Holster said eagerly, "and we'll start looking. We're good at looking."

Too late, Jack recognized the look on Holster's face. It was one he and Ransom had frequently worn during drills and scrimmages, and it meant that some dumbass forward, often Jack, had gotten so focused on evading one D-man that he'd forgotten the other.

Right on cue, Ransom said, "We're looking for someone who: we trust implicitly; is wicked good with chemistry; may be looking for a new career; and would be cool with payment in the form of, what? A limitless supply of baking ingredients and Erlenmeyer flasks."

Jack's blood turned to ice in his veins. The last time he'd felt this immobilized by panic, he'd been on the floor of a hotel bathroom in Columbus, Ohio, desperately trying to remember whether he'd taken enough anxiety meds to kill him, and whether he'd been trying to do that or avoid it. "No," he whispered. "No, no, _no_."

They all took a step back to give him space, recognizing the building panic attack. He sank deeper into his chair and buried his head in his hands. He _had to_ make them understand, even if it made him sound like an asshole.

"Jack, bro," Ransom said, his voice sounding so far away, "we wouldn't let anything happen to him."

But they couldn't promise that. And Jack didn't understand the whys and wherefores, but this he knew to his bones: if anything happened to the team because of dreamshare, it would haunt him. But if anything happened to _Bittle_ because of it, it would _destroy_ him.

"It's up to you," Lardo says. "You're the captain of this leaky boat, and we'll row where you tell us like we always have. But we're excited to see what Bits can do with Somnacin. We absolutely support bringing him on-board. Shitty does, too." She squeezed Jack's shoulder. "You're worried about him getting hurt, and we can't guarantee that he won't. But he's always been stronger than anyone gives him credit for. He can take care of himself."

"He ought to at least be given the chance to _try_."

"I'll think about it," Jack said, voice ragged and rushed. He _wouldn't_ , and the team knew it. They'd have to drag him into it kicking and screaming.

*

One thing Jack would say for Bittle: he had a knack for making panic seem like flair. If Jack didn't know him so well, he would believe that he really wanted to be rushing frantically around his cramped bedroom on a Friday night. Jack lounged on the bed (the room didn't have space for a chair) and flipped through a six-month-old _Sports Illustrated_ while Bittle stood in front of his closet, pulling on and then angrily yanking off every shirt in it, cursing with an accent that grew thicker with each rejected outfit.

A pale blue shirt flew across the room with greater than usual force, hitting Jack in the face before sliding down his chest and pooling in his lap. He looked up at Bittle, eyebrows raised in a smirk.

"Not a word out of you, Jack Zimmermann," Bittle said. "Today I had the _distinct_ pleasure of Professor Torres yelling at me for ninety minutes solid, and I am one calamity away from being late to my first date in _five months_. I'm sure your chirp was gonna be the greatest English language achievement since _Romeo and Juliet_ , but I don't have _time_."

Jack's grin, which had grown alarmingly wide as Bittle talked about Professor Torres, vanished. "You have a date?"

" _Yes,_ Jack," Bittle snapped, "a date. I know you know what those are; we suffered through you goin' on enough of 'em at Samwell." Well, that wasn't fair; Jack barely dated in college—and certainly less than Bittle.

Cold dread settled in Jack's stomach. Bittle hadn't mentioned having a date. No one had mentioned Bittle having a date. Which meant no one knew the guy. "So… anybody I know?"

Bittle froze, arms halfway above his head as another shirt either went on or came off, Jack had lost track. "Oh, no," he said, eyes boring into Jack's skull. "I have, for once in my life, snagged a guy with no connection to Rans and Holster, or Shitty, or you, or Samwell, or _hockey_. I am _beside myself_. If things go well, then maybe, a couple months on down the line, I'll introduce y'all. But for tonight, let me have my danged fun and stop trying to mother-hen me!"

Jack had no idea how Bittle could have fun if he couldn't talk about hockey. But, despite Shitty's less flattering assessments of his character, he did have an ounce or two of self-preservation instinct, so he said only, "We worry."

"Lord, I know you do," Bittle said with a put-upon sigh. "And mostly it's sweet. But I am a grown-ass gay, and I am capable of taking care of myself."

Of course he was. That didn't mean Jack had to like the idea of him out with some guy they'd never met.

"Chowder has my date's particulars," Bittle continued, "and he's got 'bout a dozen gizmos that raise holy hell the _instant_ I hit my panic button."

"Chowder," Jack said carefully, "is in California."

" _That_ ," Bittle said, equally careful, "is the point."

"Tell me his name, at least?" Jack wheedled. Bittle glared. "First name?"

A soft, dreamy look crossed Bittle's face. "Joey."

 _Joey._ What kind of name was that for an adult? Against his better judgement, he tried it. _Bitty and Joey._ It sounded childish. _Eric and Joey._ Better, unfortunately.

"Hey, wait." Jack struggled against Bittle's tower of pillows. "You know you graduated last year, right?"

"Chirp, chirp, Mr. Zimmermann." This time, Jack was sure the shirt hit him on purpose. "If Marina Torres is gonna keep being _wrong_ in the pages of _Frontiers in Chemistry_ , then I'm gonna keep arguing with her. I know it hurts her chemistry-loving heart, me supposedly being the only chem. minor in Samwell history who sucked at math, but I do fine, and she's got no call to keep ragging on me. Not like I hid from math. I took the same Calc as everybody else. I just hated it and was no good at it."

"I think she doesn't like that you came out of absolutely nowhere and got really good at chemistry in less than two years." Jack smirked. "Chemistry's supposed to be hard, or haven't you heard?"

Bittle rolled his eyes. "Oh, it is hard as _fuck_ ," he said. Jack coughed a laugh at the unexpected profanity. "But it's like baking, which I am _very_ good at." He stared in horror at his closet. "I'm out of shirts."

Jack looked at the pile and picked up a soft, long-sleeved button-down in brownish gold. "This one."

Bittle shook his head. "Already rejected."

Jack shook this shirt. "This one. Trust me." If he had Lardo's grasp of color theory, he could tell Bittle how the shirt brought out the darker streaks in his hair and the gold flecks in his eyes. Instead he settled for a gentle chirp: "It's long-sleeved. It'll keep you warm."

"Well maybe I'm hoping my date will be a gentleman and lend me his coat."

Jack doubted it, but he kept his mouth shut as Bittle took the shirt.

He sat on Bittle's bed, looking away and blushing more than he had in years, while Bittle stripped to his tiny underwear and tried on pants. He loafed, weirdly comfortable, on the closed lid of the toilet while Bittle styled his hair. He waited quietly with an increasingly jittery Bittle as he waited until the mysteriously determined time that would ensure an "acceptably late" arrival.

He didn't say a word about dreamshare. He didn't mention Somancin. He didn't explain the team's desperate need for a competent and trustworthy chemist or how amazing it was to live this life.

A "normal life" had never been in the playbook for Jack. He was the son of a legend. Then he was a legend in the making. Then a legendary fuck-up. Now he was Robin Hooding through the dreams of North America with his closest friends and a snarky projection of his ex-boyfriend. "Normal" had never gotten a foot in the door.

But Bittle could have it. A stable job, a dependable boyfriend, respectable pursuits. Jack could only offer— _dreamshare_ could only offer—a life of looking over his shoulder, a ruined sleep cycle, and possible dependence on a drug whose long-term effects had been inadequately studied.

Door #1 was Bittle's best option, and Jack intended to make sure he chose it by never revealing the existence of Door #2.

*

Jack disliked Facebook, but he acknowledged (without understanding) its role in modern romance. He remembered the team's gentle, happy chirping when Chowder's status changed to "In a relationship." The panic and scandal when March's said "In a relationship" but Ransom's said "It's complicated." The ominous, creaking silences with threatened violence roiling beneath the surface when Nursey and Dex changed back to "Single."

Jack had peeked at Bittle's Twitter a few times last night, but after a generic check-in at the restaurant, there hadn't been a tweet out of him. Now, on Saturday morning, after running, showering, dressing, and downing a protein bar, Jack was sitting at his kitchen counter with a mug of coffee, obsessively refreshing Bittle's Facebook profile to see if it was going to change to "in a relationship with Joey."

The doorbell rang. Jack looked up but didn't move. Bittle and the team rang once, as a courtesy, before letting themselves in via the biometric lock. Delivery and maintenance workers were instructed to ring twice (Jack stoically endured the postman's jokes). Anyone else could come back later.

The display unit beeped, and Jack looked over, startled to see that it read, _Bittle, Eric R._ Jack pulled out his totem and rubbed the medallion's debossed metal surface. " _Happy Birthday August 3!_ " Awake, then.

"Good morning, Jack!" Bittle called as he took off his jacket and shoes. "And Jack's friend."

Jack laughed. Bittle always said that. "Just me, Bittle." Jack always answered that way.

Bittle was shaking his head in mock despair as he came into view. "Someday, you'll have company. Gorgeous, smart, passionate guy like you could have 'em lined up around the block."

Jack knew he could find a date, or a hookup, any time he wanted. But he couldn't imagine getting involved with anyone outside of dreamshare, of putting them at risk that way. And of the people inside dreamshare, he only trusted a few enough to consider sleeping with, let alone dating, and they were all in monogamous relationships and/or not into guys. So it had been a while. He didn't miss it much.

"What about you?" he asked with a pointed look toward the two bulging grocery bags Bittle's was setting on the counter. "Why aren't you having breakfast with Joey?"

Bittle put his hand on his sternum, looking scandalized. "Mr. Zimmermann, I am a gentleman. I don't do that on a first date!"

"Bittle, I lived across the hall from you for a year. I _know_ that's not true."

If "good-natured bristling" were a thing, it was what Bittle was doing as he bustled into the kitchen and started laying out ingredients for enough food to feed all of SMH. "College hookups are different from grownup dates, and you know it."

Jack gestured to concede the point. "I'm not sure how that leads to you making breakfast in my kitchen, but I'm not complaining."

Bittle sighed as he moved around Jack's kitchen as comfortably as he did his own, constantly in motion, balancing at least three tasks at once with a speed Jack could barely follow. "Now, don't you laugh, but I got to feeling nostalgic. Once Lardo and I were both living in the Haus, post-date deets brunch was our tradition. We'd get up, trundle our date on home if they'd stayed, and then we'd eat brunch and dissect our night."

Jack pictured it: Bittle and Lardo huddled at the kitchen table, plates piled high with whatever Bittle had whipped up, trading deets and wickedly sharp assessments of the previous night's date. "You still do it?"

"Mm-hmm." Bittle shook the coffee pot at Jack, who held out his mug for a refill. "Shitty doesn't get it, but he's a real good sport about it."

But with Shitty and Lardo on the quinquennial Duan family trip to Vietnam (" _Quinquennial_ , Shits?" "Occurring every five years, dickcheese. Open a damn dictionary."), Bittle must've found himself at loose ends. Jack wasn't sure he could listen to an extensive assessment of Joey's dating prowess, but brunch foods sounded appealing.

Talk was frivolous while Bittle cooked. Three new items for assessment in the ever-expanding "Why Bitty Needs a New Job" list. A prank war between two of Jack's innovation consulting clients. (It was a recycled story about two players from the peewee league he'd coached after rehab. He hated that, because Bittle deserved a hell of a lot more than stories about a made-up life. But it wasn't like Jack could tell him how their current chemist seemed to be at the start of a complete breakdown, or how Holster had accidentally dreamed a theaterful of movie-watching projections because the mark's office smelled like popcorn.)

As Bittle slid the last tray of breakfast muffins ("Turkey and sharp cheddar. Plenty of protein!") into the oven, he texted Ransom and Holster to come over. They lived three doors down and across the hall, but Jack swore he heard Holster shouting "Bitty brunch!" and feet thundering toward the door.

"Oh, Lord," Bittle muttered as the footsteps pounded into the hallway.

"You can take the bros out of the Haus…" Jack said, trailing off as Bittle laughed.

They were polite and civilized until they were sitting at the table, plates loaded with muffins and fresh fruit. Then Ransom popped a strawberry in his mouth, made a pornographic noise, and said, "Bitty had a date last night."

Holster's snort-laugh echoed around the room. He put his hand on his heart. "We are honored to be included in this sacred post-date deets tradition."

Bittle blushed and flapped a hand at them. "Oh, hush, both of you."

"So, deets," Holster said, leaning across the table toward Bittle. Having described the Birkholtz clan as "the biggest group of yentas and kibitzers you will ever meet," his passion for gossip surprised no one.

"It was fine," Bittle said instantly. "We went to Four Corners—I'm gonna have to recreate their sweet corn risotto, because it is _sublime_. We talked about our jobs, and our families, and college. It was fine."

They waited, but Bittle pushed a crumb from his muffin around his plate and kept his mouth shut.

"Hmm," Holster said, adopting his ESPN commentator persona. "I expect a bullshitting call on that play. Justin?"

Ransom held up his hands in a rectangle shape and held them in front of Bittle's face like a TV screen. "I disagree, Adam," he said in the same voice. "I'm calling this one omission of deets."

"Ooh, you're right, Justin. Bittle draws a minute in the box. Can his team survive? Jack?" They turned to him.

Jack held up his hands. "Leave me out of this," he said, although the defeated slump of Bittle's shoulders said they were on the right track.

"Y'all stop," Bittle said weakly. He sighed and spun a grape around his plate. "It was fine. That's the god's honest." He jabbed the grape viciously with his fingernail, and it skittered halfway across the table. "And that's the problem. It was _fine_. My job's not great, but it's not bad enough to quit. My apartment's farther from all y'all than I'd like, and it's a shoebox, but it's not _bad_ , and I couldn't afford this neighborhood anyway. In the year since I graduated from Samwell, I haven't had a single steady relationship, but I've had a bunch a dates with guys who were fine, or nice enough, or okay I guess." He sighed. "And maybe it's real entitled of me, or I've watched too many rom-coms, but I feel like I can do better than _okay I guess_."

Jack stared with no small horror. How could Bittle think he deserved anything less than the absolute best life had to offer? How could any guy not realize that Bittle deserved his A game?

Ransom cleared his throat. "That sucks, bro. I hear ya. Holster and I do have an exhaustive spreadsheet of available men in the area—"

Bittle held up a hand. "Thank you, boys, but having... _experienced_ two-plus years of your matchmaking attempts at Samwell, I'm done with that for a while."

"All right, but let us help you find a new apartment, at least. We can find you a bigger, closer place for less than you're paying now."

Jack pulled out his phone under the table and texted them a reminder that Bittle wouldn't appreciate their threatening or making illegal deals with landlords on his behalf.

"As for your job situation…" Rans let his voice trail off as he shot Jack a meaningful glance.

Jack blinked. " _Now_?"

"When else, man?" Holster asked, hands spread wide.

"How about _never_?" Jack snapped.

"Jack, _please_ ," Ransom said, uncharacteristically earnest. "I _cannot_ take another job like the last one."

Bringing Bittle onboard would solve a lot of problems. Jack couldn't deprive his team of those solutions because he worried about Bittle's safety. He sighed and turned to Bittle. "The three of us and Lardo—you know we work those freelance jobs together?"

"I am aware," Bittle said sharply.

Jack winced at the hard edge in his voice. After an adolescence rife with ostracism and social isolation, Bittle had a hyperacute awareness of his position in any social structure. Of course he had noticed his closest friends undertaking something big without him.

Jack cleared his throat and blundered on. "We're part of a, euh, community—" He looked pleadingly at Ransom and Holster, who made identical "search me" faces and were no help whatsoever. "A cottage industry, maybe? Euh, anyway, it started during the Gulf War, when a chemist working for the US Army synthesized a drug called Somnacin."

Holster rolled his eyes. "You're starting with the boring history shit?"

"I'm starting with the part that shows Bittle how he'd fit in," Jack said pointedly.

Bittle sat up straight. "How I'd fit in?" he asked in a voice barely daring to brim with hope.

"Yeah, but _only_ if you want," Jack insisted. "This stuff is _big_. You don't have to do it. You don't have to hear about it."

"Jack Zimmermann, if you don't keep talking, I won't bake you a thing for the rest of the year."

Jack talked.

*

"You sure you don't want to come with us?" Bittle asked for the third time.

"Bits," Ransom chided gently from the doorway.

"I'm fine, Bittle," Jack said. "Go on."

"I could whip something together for you real quick—"

" _Bitty,_ " Holster groaned.

Jack's lips quirked up. "Thanks for the offer. But I _am_ a grown-ass bisexual. I can take care of myself."

Bittle laughed. "Well played, Mr. Zimmermann. Talk to you soon."

Bittle finally let Holster and Ransom herd him out the door. It clicked shut behind them, and Jack sagged against it, basking in the silence.

It was almost dinnertime. Their conversation ended ten minutes ago. Jack felt talked out.

Bittle had been enthusiastic about the general concept of dreamshare and appalled by the lack of study into the effects of long-term Somnacin use. ("Y'all shoot this stuff into your bodies week after week, and you have no idea what it's doing to you?"

"Dreamshare hasn't been around long enough—"

"Desert Storm was _thirty years ago_. Somebody oughtta know _something._ ")

Bittle had asked smart, incisive questions that had slowly and inexorably forced Jack to concede the argument his team had been making for weeks: they needed him.

Bittle hadn't committed to anything beyond a lot of research and thinking. But he had three bottles of Somnacin, from three different chemists, to analyze to his heart's content. And Ransom had Skyped Arthur and Eames, who had been thoroughly charmed by Bittle and had promised him copies of certain highly classified Army and Special Forces documents related to Project Somnacin that they had liberated upon departure from those institutions. Not officially signed on yet, and Bittle was already becoming a force to be reckoned with in dreamshare.

Bittle was disappointed that they hadn't taken him under. But they knew what Lardo would do to them if Bittle had his first shared dream without her. Of the two, they feared Lardo's wrath more.

Bittle, Rans, and Holster were headed to dinner. They'd extended the invitation to Jack, but he was done with people for the day. He'd only gotten Bittle out the door by promising to eat, and he intended to. But first he needed to check in with his feelings.

For the past several weeks, Bittle coming into dreamshare has been his worst nightmare. Now that it was likely to happen, despite his best efforts, he felt curiously sanguine. The team was right about one thing: he'd been a fool (and a patronizing one at that) to think Bittle couldn't take care of himself. And on the rare occasions when he couldn't, the team would lift him up. What was more, Bittle would develop the best Somnacin formula he could. He wouldn't rest until he'd found the best way _he_ could lift _them_ up.

This wasn't how Jack had pictured his Saturday, but he couldn't regret the outcome. And if he allowed himself an extra smile as he started dinner because Bittle hadn't mentioned Joey once after the dreamshare conversation started, well, that was between him and his blender.

*

"Ooh. Who's the new me?"

"What in the deep-fried hell?"

" _Zimmermann! Come collect your damned projection_!"

" _Bitty_ ," Jack whispered. A cold determination settled over him, and he strode toward the ice, where Kenny was leering at Bitty, who looked startled but in no way cowed.

"I don't know how you got in here, Kent Parson—"

"He's cute, Zimms," Kenny drawled. "Cheerfully combative extroverts still your type, huh?"

Jack checked his totem. " _Happy Birthday June 22!_ " Still a dream, and rapidly turning into a nightmare.

It was a simple dream. A single level, set in Lardo's Faber-a-la-Mondrian, showcasing the way the shared dreamspace allowed dreamers to manipulate the mark's expectations. Holster and Ransom dismissed it as "the nerd shit," but to Jack's mind, it was the cornerstone of successful dreaming. If the mark's subconscious didn't either absolutely accept the dream as reality or accept that it was a dream and therefore exempt from the ordinary rules of logic, you were sunk before you'd begun. They were all here for the momentous occasion of Bitty's first time under—even Shitty, who only dreamed with them a couple times a year.

Jack sighed and stepped onto the ice, skates forming around his feet as easily as thought. "Kenny," he said, "come on. Leave him alone."

"Aww, whatsa matter?" Kenny asked, all-too-familiar sneer on his lips as he skated toward Jack. He was wearing jeans with ripped knees today, a black t-shirt stretching tight under a blue and gray plaid that used to be Jack's. "Is he too soft to take it? Gonna cry like a girl?"

"Hey!" Shitty said from behind them. He surely had one of his standard rants about misogyny, homophobia, and toxic masculinity queued up and ready to go, but this wasn't the time or place—and what was the point, anyway, of arguing with a projection from Jack's subconscious? It wasn't like the real Kent Parson were here to learn the lesson.

Quicker than blinking, Bitty was at Jack's side. "I can take anything you're dishing out, Kent Parson."

Jack tried to tell Bitty not to goad the projection, but it was too late. He and Kenny were off, chasing each other around the rink at literally impossible speeds. Looked like Bitty didn't need any time at all to acclimate to the possibilities of the dreamspace. In seconds, Jack was retreating to the boards to keep from getting flattened.

"You gotta get that shit under control," Holster said.

Jack bit back a retort. The team didn't understand that Kent didn't work like that way. A normal projection was a device created to protect his subconscious from intrusion. Kenny was an accumulation of memory and impression that his subconscious needed protection from.

He was similar to Dom's projection of Mal. Except that the real Kent Parson was alive and tearing up the ice in Las Vegas. And except that Jack, instead of trying to lock his troublesome projection in a basement cage in his subconscious ( _and then you wonder why she's pissed all the time_ ), Jack gave Kenny the run of his subconscious and tried to drop in on him periodically. Jack's therapist at Fallwood had talked about befriending his anxiety to limit its power over him, and he liked to think that she would've been proud of how well he was implementing the lesson here (if dismayed that he was applying it to an out-of-control subconscious projection of his ex-boyfriend).

Jack didn't say any of this to Holster (or the others, who were being way less subtle about eavesdropping than they thought they were). He'd tried to explain how things were with Kenny. But the comparison to the Mal Cobb projection had been a mistake; all most people knew for sure was the number of times she'd endangered one of Dom's teams because he couldn't control her.

Instead he gestured at the ice, where Bitty was skating literal circles around Kent and beating him on every lap. "Bitty's fine," he said.

Holster gave Jack a long look before saying, "Well, _yeah_. Because Bitty is a nearly perfect human being. Don't use that as an excuse for letting Parse run loose in the streets." His expression turned intense. "This isn't just about Bitty. You get that, right? We worry about you, too."

Jack did know that, and he found it touching, even as it pissed him off. A love like he and Kent had had—and it _had_ been love, in its immature and deeply unhealthy way—never left a person. He had known that before dreamshare. If Kenny was going to take up space in Jack's head anyway, at least this way Jack set the parameters of that space.

Kenny and Bitty skated up to the boards, stopping in a showy spray of ice. "Not half bad, Mr. Parson," Bitty chirped. "Been a while since I had a real challenge." He looked at Jack when he said it, though, and Jack jolted under the sudden realization that Bitty thought Jack had done it on purpose, _for_ Bitty.

Kenny was fast, but not as fast as Bitty. No way would his real-life counterpart have been able to keep up with Bitty at full speed. And although Kenny wasn't under Jack's conscious control like his other projections, he was a creation of Jack's subconscious. Ultimately, he only did what Jack made him do. Had he pushed Kenny to be faster so he could keep up with Bitty? He wasn't sure what the point of that would've been, but he couldn't discount the idea.

"Well, I for one wanna see more of what Bits can do down here," Shitty called.

"Yeah, whadya think, brah?" Ransom asked. "Quintuple axel? Double backflip?"

"Oh, stop," Bitty said. Then _he_ stopped. "Could I do that down here?"

Lardo laughed and glided toward him. She skated very well in dreamspace. "One way to find out, bro."

Jack watched avidly as Bitty modified one of his old routines. He didn't realize Kenny was still there until he said, "Cute, extroverted, athletic, and immune to your shit. You didn't stand a chance, did ya, Zimms?"

Not looking away from the ice, Jack said, "Go away, Kenny." Like that, Kenny was gone. The timer ran out less than a minute later, dream-time, and when they were awake, the focus shifted to debriefing Bitty and gushing over his dream routine (quint axel, yes; double backflip, no). Apart from a glare from Rans, a commiserating back-pat from Shitty, and a confused squint from Bitty, no one acknowledged that Kenny had shown up.

But after the team went their separate ways for the night, Jack lay in bed and thought about what Kenny said.

Jack sometimes struggled to parse (pun completely unintended) conversations with the Kenny projection. They came from Jack's mind, but filtered through Jack's memories of Kent, and of the person Jack was when they were together.

But every now and then, Kenny made an observation that Jack hadn't allowed himself to make. Once or twice he'd said things Jack hadn't been consciously aware of until that moment.

_"Cute, extroverted, athletic, and immune to your shit. You didn't stand a chance, did ya, Zimms?"_

He'd never thought of Bitty that way. Had he?

The idea was had merit. But then, after eluding him for hours, sleep chose that moment to claim him, leaving the thought unpursued.

* * *

**Now: April 2021**

Bitty's doing stretches when Jack comes into the office. It's been a few years, but Jack thinks they may be the same stretches he used to do before checking practice. The corner of Jack's mouth ticks up.

"I see the chirp forming from here," Bitty says as he bends in the opposite direction, "and I don't want to hear it. 'A healthy mind for a healthy body; a flexible body for a flexible mind,' Kayta always said." He faces forward and puts his hands flat on the floor. Jack looks away and focuses on the job.

Jack sets up the PASIV while Bitty finishes his stretches. Bitty searches his rows of vials and bottles and picks one up with a soft sound of triumph. He joins Jack in the ring of six recliners around a low table and reaches for the PASIV.

"Bittle, wait."

Bitty stills, tilting his head.

"Goals," Jack says.

"Oh for Pete's sake," Bitty grumbles.

"You know they help," Jack says doggedly.

Bitty grumbles again but says, "I wanna go into a third level without freezing."

When Bitty came to dreamshare, that would've been enough. But he has experience now, and a reputation, and he needs more of a goal than that. So Jack says, "And?"

Bitty keeps his gaze down for a second and then looks up at Jack. "First and second levels are as easy as... as pie," he says, and they chuckle. "But get me in a third level, and it's like high-altitude baking. I know I have to adjust, but I don't know what or how, and things come out all dry and dense."

Jack stares at him for a minute. Then he feels a faint smile start to grow. "You know exactly how to adjust for high-altitude baking, don't you?"

Bitty shrugs. "Not hard once you know what you're adjusting for."

"Third level's the same way. You know how to do it. You just have to figure out how to access what you know."

Bitty rolls his eyes. "Well look at you, still Captain Motivational Speaking. All right, then, there's my goal. I wanna be able to access what I know on the third level."

Jack gives a small nod, pleased with the answer. He reaches for the PASIV, only to have his hand stilled like he'd done to Bitty. He looks up with a raised eyebrow.

"Now you," Bitty says. It doesn't sound like a chirp, despite the quirk to his lips. Jack frowns, and Bitty huffs, though he doesn't stop smiling. "You think I spent a year and a half learning how to take a check from you and didn't notice you gettin' better at checking at the same time? You never teach anybody anything without thinking about what _you_ can learn from it, too. So?"

Jack blinks at Bitty, startled and impressed. Bitty looks back placidly, like he has no idea what a big deal this moment is. Jack clears his throat. "Yeah, uh, well." He motions awkwardly over his left shoulder. It's a nonsense gesture, but Bitty gets it instantly and straightens up, nodding.

"Yeah, of course," Bitty says. Jack's not sure why he's surprised. "Anything I can do?"

Jack rubs the side of his neck. "Don't engage him. It only encourages him."

Bitty laughs. "No encouraging the projection. Got it." He studies Jack. "You got a specific goal?"

Jack chuckles. "Ideally, I'd like him gone. But for now, getting him under control will be enough."

"That sounds good, Jack," Bitty says gently.

With that settled, they set up the PASIV. "I'm setting the timer for three minutes," Jack says.

Bitty makes a face. "Hardly seems worth it," he mutters.

Jack looks pointedly at the vial of Somnacin Bitty's hooking up. "That equals a week on the third level."

Bitty blanches. "Three minutes it is."

Jack grins and inserts the cannula. He watches Bitty, who's trying so hard to look like he's not seconds from freaking out. On impulse, Jack reaches out and takes Bitty's hand, tangling their fingers together loosely. "Hey, Bittle," he says quietly, "got your back."

Bitty smiles gratefully at him, and they fall asleep.

*

They don't linger in the first level, just cross the crap-hole Cambridge apartment Jack and Shitty shared during Shitty's first year of law school, but in the style of Miró, as befits the place's messy aesthetic, and climb down the fire escape, which leads to street level and then under it.

The second level is Jack's grandparents' old neighborhood in Montréal, but with a Sarah Sherwood wash. He strolls them slowly down the block, pointing out the greengrocer, the bakery, and the butcher where Mémé shops, the park where Pépé plays chess on Sunday mornings, the corner where Jack crashed his bike at age 11 and got the faded scar on his chin.

"Makes you look rakish," Bitty says, grinning. Jack ducks his head to hide his pleased smile.

In the apartment, Jack kisses his grandmother's cheek, marveling at the way her papery skin gives way beneath his lips and the lilac scent that rises from her. She's a creation of his mind and Bitty's Somnacin, but she's exactly the way she is in waking life. He introduces her to "my teammate Eric," who shakes her hand and is on his best southern behavior. Mémé pronounces him "utterly charming" in English before raising an eyebrow and says, «Teammate, eh»? in French, and Jack is once again awed by her ability to chirp him in multiple languages (he guesses he should be grateful she hasn't broken out the Yiddish), awake or asleep.

"Leave the boy be, Edith," Pépé chides as he comes in from the garden plot behind the building. "He's a grown man, he can manage his life."

«Merci, Pépé», Jack murmurs.

"I wouldn't be so sure, Mr. Zimmermann," Bitty says with a sly glance at Jack. Jack's grandparents burst out laughing, and Jack stalks toward the sewing room, feigning insult.

"Will we see you again, Jacques?" Mémé calls.

Jack checks his timekeeper and works quick calculations in his head. "We'll try to stop by tomorrow." Not that they'll know it's "tomorrow." Technically, Jack could bring them right to this moment, or one before. And it'll be strange, because they'll have spent almost a week in the third level by then. But Jack likes his shared dreams to be orderly, to make sense. Eleven hours on the second level means it'll be "tomorrow" here by the time they come back.

Bitty excuses himself and hustles to catch up with Jack. "They're wonderful," he says. "Accurate?"

Jack nods, smiling softly.

"And they're..." The question trails off, but Jack knows what he's asking and smiles wider.

"Alive and well and terrorizing the naughty children of Montréal."

Bitty laughs. "Where to, Cap?"

Jack gestures at the door in front of them. "This is is Mémé's sewing room. It was forbidden to me and my cousins as kids. We thought it was because she didn't want us messing with her things." He opens the door and ushers Bitty inside.

It's an ordinary sewing room, cluttered with fabrics and notions and half-finished projects, like it is topside. Two sewing machines hold pride of place at opposite ends of the room; the antique treadle Mémé inherited from her mother, and the fancy new electric model that had been part of her seventieth birthday present from Dad and Uncle Phil. Jack and Bitty pick their way carefully through the tottering piles of fabric to the closet door at the far side of the room.

"This is the real reason we couldn't come in here." He stops and puts a hand to Bitty's sternum. He's cool to the touch, unable to adapt to the cold weather even in sleep. "You can't tell anyone, because it's true topside, okay?"

Bitty nods, forehead furrowed. Jack opens the door. Bitty bursts into startled laughter.

"Your grandparents have a _grow room_?" He looks around at the rows of vibrant plants and cocks his head to listen to the lamps buzzing contentedly. "It's amazing."

"Pépé's best friend was diagnosed with colon cancer when they were 50. Pépé had read an article about pot helping with the pain and the nausea from chemo. Obviously, medical marijuana wasn't legal then."

Bitty's eyebrows go up. "So they decided to grow it themselves? And to keep growing it, for, what, the next twenty-five years?"

Jack smiles and nods. "It's a hobby. Like orchids."

Bitty snorts. "Orchids."

The only part of space that isn't accurate to waking life is the small white door at the back of the closet. Jack puts his hand on the knob and looks at Bitty. "You ready?"

Bitty, who's looking around in wonder at the setup, makes a distracted, "Hmm?" sound.

"Bittle."

Bitty startles and looks over, wide-eyed. "Oh," he says, voice small. "Yeah, I." He takes a deep breath, steeling himself. "Ready."

There are no stairs here, no ladders, no slopes. Jack opens a door, and there they are. The third level.

It's empty.

Bitty jerks on the threshold. " _Jack_ ," he hisses.

From his non-space in the third level, Jack holds out a hand. "Bitty. Come on. We'll build it together."

"I'm not an architect, Jack," Bitty says, that fine edge of panic sharp in his voice. "Neither of us is an architect."

Jack rolls his eyes and wiggles his fingers at Bitty. "We don't need to be. We know how the levels work. We're not trying to fool a mark's projections. We can do this."

Bitty closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and reaches for Jack's hand. He steps into the void—

And a street appears under their feet.

Buildings pop up around them faster than Jack can track. He's the dreamer, but this is Bitty's doing—a true collaborative dream. An entire city, it looks like, springing up around them. Bitty favors the hyperrealists, and Jack sees the influence of Antonio López García in the sharp lines and cloud-broken sunlight around them. The air turns cold and bright around them, and they give themselves heavy jackets, thick mittens, knit toques. Projections in brightly colored jackets bustle around them, most carrying skates and skis and curling brooms and—

"This is Olympic Village," Jack says, looking at Bitty with no small measure of awe. Bitty's jacket is dark blue, covered in white stars and red accent patches.

Bitty ducks his head. "Sochi 2014." He glances at Jack from under his lashes. "If you had gone to the NHL instead of Samwell, and if I had stayed with figure skating, maybe we would've gone. Maybe we would've met there."

Maybe they would have, at that. Maybe any path Jack had stepped onto would have crossed any path Bitty was on. He pictures it: Bitty, solitary and driven, hiding his isolation and pain behind big jumps and bigger smiles. Himself, aloof and anxious, desperate to prove himself to anyone and everyone, racing to catch up to his father's legacy. Both of them closeted about their sexuality and their mental health struggles. Maybe their paths would've crossed, but Jack isn't sure they would've liked each other. He's not sure they would've liked _themselves_.

"Keeps your projections occupied, eh?" he says, because the thought of saying what he's thinking makes him feel like cold sweat is beading along his brow, though he can't sweat down here. He reimagines his clothes; he has no idea what Team Canada's 2014 Olympic jackets looked like, but he can't go far wrong in a red jacket with a white maple leaf on the back.

Bitty's still looking at him, probably trying to figure out how Jack has managed to wreck the mood between them, and then he nods. "They sure like you plenty."

Sure enough, a blond woman with a pair of white figure skates in her hand walks by and gives Jack a come-hither look. He starts to smile and then freezes as he realizes that she's literally what Bitty would look like if he were a woman.

"Bits," he murmurs, not sure what he's objecting to but knowing that something isn't right.

"Sorry," Bitty says sheepishly, and the woman walks off.

Three seconds later another projection walks by, a guy this time. It hits Jack like a punch in the gut: this is Bitty as Jack had met him. The Eric Bittle who started Samwell in August 2013 was only six months off from the one who, in another universe, would've competed at the Winter Olympics in February 2014. His approach is more covert than the woman's but no less blatant in its way. Jack feels that flash of irritation Bitty sparked in him first semester, mixed now with a near-tidal wave of affection and a spike of lust so strong it staggers him. " _Bitty_ ," he gasps.

Bitty's eyes widen, and he looks around quickly. "Oh, Lord, honey, I don't know what you did, but we gotta get you out of here."

Jack looks around. His emotions amplified by three must feel like a tsunami to Bitty's projections. They're all looking at him, frozen and uncertain. He wants to smile, to reassure them, but he suspects it'll look like a grimace.

Yusuf believes that dream levels correspond to Freud's levels of the psyche. He correlates the third level to the id, to a place where the dreamer experiences only the basest of wants, unhooked from consideration of whether it's good for them—or anyone else.

In Jack's experience, that concept has some truth, but it's also bullshit. The third level is instinct and emotion, yes, but instinct and emotion unfettered by layers of expectation and conditioning, second-guessing and self-censoring that've been a lifetime in the making. In the third level, Jack can _feel_ , and he doesn't have to give a damn about anyone else's opinion.

The first time he went to the third level, he saw a hydrangea bush that looked like one his maternal grandmother had had in her yard. He'd sat down and spent what felt like an hour crying because he'd never truly mourned her. The last time he went down with Ransom and Holster, Ransom had made a hideous French pun. The combination of the joke, Ransom's Torontonian accent, and Holster's indignation at not getting it had struck Jack as so hilarious that he'd laughed for ten solid minutes. Barely a blink topside, but Jack hadn't laughed that hard and long since he was a child.

He suspects that this is a large part of Bitty's third level anxiety. Bitty's emotional armor has cracks. Down here, cracks turn into chasms.

"Where can we go?" Jack asks, voice tight, and he reminds himself that it doesn't matter if he can't get enough air down here; _this_ him isn't breathing. As long as his physical self is fine, he's fine.

He's _fine_.

Bitty wrings his hands. "I built a dorm, but—"

"I can modify it. Let's go."

Bitty doesn't bother walking them across the village. He pulls the dreamscape sideways until they're standing in front of a five-storey apartment building. "In here," he says. He hustles them up the walk and through the door, agilely dodging increasingly hostile-looking projections, keeping himself between them and Jack whenever possible. He slams and locks the door behind them. Jack's under no illusions that there are no projections in here, but at least they can't get to him. He spots a staircase to their left. "Is there another one at the other end of the building?"

Bitty points ahead and to the right. "Opposite corner."

Jack grins despite the tension of the situation. "We'll make an architect out of you yet, Bittle," he says. Bitty grimaces and braces himself against the door while Jack pulls hallways and stairways around to create a maze that will hopefully take Bitty's projections a while to crack. Bitty keeps his eyes closed so he doesn't see the layout Jack's creating. Jack wonders fleetingly whether Kenny's here, whether he knows the layout, but he doesn't stop to worry about it, just connects the last two stairways and says, "Where's our room?"

"It's here," Bitty says, and suddenly it is, an unassuming door marked "151," which makes Jack grin. Bitty needs three tries before he can make the key behave. He rushes them inside, slams the door and triple-locks it, and then he's on Jack, crowding him against the door, skimming his face and neck and chest with shaking fingers. "Are you okay?" he asks. "Did they hurt you? Are you okay?"

"Bits," Jack breathes, and here it comes. The flood of emotion so strong it rocked even Bitty's well-behaved projections.

Down here, stripped of doubts and clamoring voices, Jack almost laughs at the simple truth of it. He lifts his hand to Bitty's face, cradling his jaw, thumb stroking his cheek. "I really want to kiss you."

Bitty's eyes are huge, his expression a mix of wonder and confusion. He swallows hard, tilts his face up, and says, "Then I think you'd better."

Jack leans down, and Bitty leans up, and when their lips touch, all Jack's jagged pieces align for one flash of a second. A long-sleeping part of him is waking up. It'll be different topside—and it _will be,_ topside—but he feels the slide and drag of Bitty's lips, the softness of his skin and the faintest rasp of stubble. Bitty crowds closer, and Jack can't feel the heat of Bitty's body against him, but he imagines it all the same.

Bitty's tongue swipes along the seam of Jack's lips. Jack shoves his hand under the hem of Bitty's jacket in search of skin. He jerks Bitty closer, feels the impossible heat of him, the warmth of his breath against Jack's lips each time they part and meet again. Jack's a raging fire from head to toe, but he feels a center of absolute calm, the eye of the storm, deep in his core. He's not confused about a damned thing. He's where he needs to be, doing what he wants to do.

Bitty's a column of solid, compact muscle against Jack. He groans and jerks his hips forward, his dick hard and insistent against Jack's thigh. Jack jerks his mouth away and presses his forehead against Bitty's temple, gasping. "Bitty. I can't—down here I don't—" He doesn't know if it's a side effect of the Somnacin or the result of having been on anti-anxiety meds for as long as he was, but Jack can't get hard in dreamspace. Which is the most ridiculous thing, because he's _dreaming_ , it's not _real_ ; he's made his body do any number of impossible things here. But this one thing it simply will not do.

"Sweetheart, it's okay," Bitty soothes him instantly. The endearment falls from his lips as easily as it always has, but it feels different. Feels _more_. Bitty's dexterous fingers wind through Jack's hair, pulling a quiet moan from him. "Call me old-fashioned, but I want our first time to be topside. I wanna get my hands and mouth all over you for real."

Jack is burning, both from the thought of getting Bitty naked in a bed and from the casual way Bitty says "our first time," like of course they'll have a second and a third and—and a hundredth and a thousandth, if Jack has his way.

"I love you," Jack says, and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. Maybe he should've waited, maybe Bitty would've preferred that the first time topside, as well, but it's so _obvious_ here, so embarrassingly clear that this is what he's felt, maybe for years, and he doesn't want to go another second not saying it.

"Oh, you ridiculous boy," Bitty says, laughing between kisses. "I love you, too. I've _been_ loving you."

It's the most perfect moment Jack's ever known.

Jack walks them to the couch. It's slow going, because neither of them wants to let go or stop kissing for one second. They could move the couch closer, or shrink the room, so it's fewer steps. But Jack just wants to keep kissing Bitty and attract as little attention as possible from the projections.

Jack spins them on the way down to the couch, so that he lands on his back with Bitty on top of him. Bitty laughs delightedly. "Such a showboater, Mr. Zimmermann," he says, with so much love in his tone, in the way he says Jack's name, that Jack wonders how he could've missed it, or how Bitty could've hidden it. Jack desperately wants to kiss him again—so he does, again and again, his lips, his cheeks, his chin, any part he can reach, until Bitty's laughing breathlessly and holding him off. "Well, my goodness," Bitty says, stroking his fingers down Jack's cheek, "a boyfriend _and_ a puppy. Not bad for—" He checks his timekeeper. "—thirty seconds' work."

Jack laughs and arranges them so their position's more comfortable for talking, him with a pillow tucked under his neck, Bitty half against the back cushions of the couch, half on top of Jack. "Boyfriend, eh?"

Bitty shrugs. Jack has never regretted so much that people can't blush naturally in dreamspace. He can't wait to see how far down Bitty's go. "If I'm not going not too fast for you."

Jack snorts. "I said 'I love you' within seconds of our first kiss. You can't go too fast for me."

With a relieved, contented sigh, Bitty goes boneless against him, his body a welcome weight against Jack's side. He slings his arm across Jack's chest and rests his head on Jack's shoulder, and for a minute they lie there, breathing together, enjoying the closeness and the quiet.

Eventually Bitty stirs with a sigh. "You sure know how to throw a wrench in a boy's plans."

He says it without anger or heat, and Jack's anxiety subsides. "Sorry," he says, not meaning it.

"Oh, I am _not_ complaining," Bitty says. He places his hand over Jack's heart, and it's like an electric shock, the way the touch travels through him. He takes Bitty's hand in his. "I, uh..." And there it is again, a moment when Bitty would be blushing topside. "I hadn't expected this until later in the week."

The gears in Jack's brain seem to be turning slowly, because it takes him a long minute to register what Bitty's saying. "You planned for this?"

" _Hoped_ ," Bitty says. "Lord, Jack, but I was tired of pining. I did real well through college, and just after. There were other guys, and they were fine. Some of 'em were even good. But none of them were _you_. So I thought, a week alone in the third level, I'm never gonna get a better chance. I thought I'd take you to Olympic hockey games, make you those coconut chicken tenders you like, flirt a bunch and hope like hell." He shrugs and gives a self-deprecating smile that Jack hasn't seen since before Bitty joined the dreamshare team and had hoped to never see again. "If that hadn't worked, 'throw myself at you and hope I don't get punched' seemed like a good last resort."

" _Bits_ ," Jack breathes, his heart breaking a little.

"I wouldn't have guessed it would happen as soon as we stepped onto this level," Bitty says. "And I never thought _you_ would make the move."

Jack grins and runs a finger down the slope of Bitty's nose. "What can I say? You're irresistible." Bitty laughs and bats Jack's hand away but doesn't let go. Jack shifts his head and looks at him. "Can we still go to hockey games?"

Bitty's laugh is a loud, pealing thing, and he shoves his face into the crook of Jack's neck. Jack thinks it's supposed to be retaliation, but it's one of the nicest sensations he's ever felt. "I signed up for this," Bitty mutters. "I literally just signed up for this." He pulls his head back and raises his voice. "Yes, you silly thing. We can still go to hockey games."

*

They go to hockey games. Jack is part of the Canadian men's hockey team in this dream, so he could be playing. But he's never enjoyed playing hockey against projections. His mind knows the mechanics, but he can't hold the strategies and movements of eleven other players at once. So the other players either stop moving as soon as Jack's back is to them, or they all play like he does, just with different faces, which makes them unchallenging opponents. So he watches, and if he notices that the players are fast and agile and not prone to checking or fighting, he doesn't mention it anyone who's watching with him.

They watch figure skating, ice dancing, speed skating, and curling. The curling matches are hilarious, because Bitty understands the game's mechanics but not its lingo, so the players are constantly yelling gibberish at each other. Bitty's projections seem strangely comfortable with Jack. In fact, when they give him trouble, it's more often aggressive flirting than straight-up aggression. Bitty's response is to grin wickedly and high-five whoever's put the moves on Jack this time.

"You could act a little jealous," Jack grumbles after a set of twins from the Canadian bobsledding team offer him a particularly filthy proposition and then rush off giggling.

"Of my own subsconscious?" Bitty asks, eyebrows raised, giant, disgusting soda halfway to his mouth. "No, Jack, I don't think I could."

Jack crosses his arms, but it's for show. Secretly he's pleased by the confirmation of how deep Bitty's regard for him goes. Or maybe not so secretly, considering the gentle smirk Bitty gives him.

Jack hasn't seen Kenny once.

Jack and Bitty talk. Endlessly. While they walk between the buildings of Olympic Village, while they lie on the couch trading syrup-slow kisses, while Bitty hones his already sharp culinary mastery in their suspiciously spacious and well-stocked kitchen. (Bitty loves testing recipes in dreamspace. Jack doesn't understand how he can replicate topside conditions, but Bitty swears by it, and Jack's not going to argue when he gets to eat the delicious results. Bitty's developed a compound, now standard in all of his Somnacin blends, that heightens sensations of taste and smell in dreams. He claims it's to make the experience feel more authentic to the mark. Jack suspects it's so people will appreciate his food more). Despite all the years they've known each other, they never run out of things to say to each other, and Jack marvels at that day after day.

On the fourth morning, Jack finally feels brave enough to bring up what's been scratching at the his mind since the first afternoon. "Bits?" he asks, stroking a hand down Bitty's back as Bitty sprawls across him on the bed, head turned like a cat's toward the sunbeam making its slow way across the comforter.

"Hmm?" Bitty asks, barely awake but willing to rally if Jack needs this conversation. Jack's heart clenches for a second with how safe and loved he feels.

"You and Nursey—"

Bitty rolls off Jack and props himself on an elbow so they can looks at each other more easily. His lips are quirked and his eyes dancing with mischief, and Jack braces for the chirp. Then he sees Bitty realize how serious this is for Jack, how hard it was to ask. His mirth vanishes, and his hand scrabbles on the comforter until it finds Jack's and holds on tight.

"Hey, Jack," he says softly. "Look at me."

Jack would rather not. He doesn't want to see whatever's on Bitty's face as he talks. But he makes himself look, because Bitty asked, and he trusts Bitty more than he trusts anyone else. Himself included.

"Derek and me..." Bitty pauses, lips pursed, considering his words, which Jack appreciates. "It's all physical. We like and trust and respect each other, which can be real hard to find in this business. And you know they like to test—" He clears his throat and looks sheepish. "— _every_ part of a forge before they run it." Jack snorts, and Bitty smacks his arm lightly. "But mostly we're just two people who like each other and like sex. We hook up a bunch in dreamspace, less often topside. It's good sex, and we have a good time, but it's nothing deeper. We're placeholders for the ones we want and can't have." He looks at Jack, eyes widening. Then he laughs in wonder and covers his face with his free hand. "The one I _thought_ I couldn't have." He makes himself look serious again. "I'll talk to them as soon as we get back. If I'm with you, I don't want to be with anybody else."

Jack never would've asked Bitty for that. He's listened to enough "Ethical Non-Monogamy Shit With Ransom and Holster" to be comfortable with the concept, though it's not for him. If Bitty had wanted to keep doing what he's doing with Nursey, or anyone else, that would've been fine. But it warms him, knowing they're on the same page.

Then a cold, slimy feeling slithers down Jack's spine. "Bits, you didn't—I mean, for this job have you—"

Bitty stares at him. Jack sees real anger building in his eyes. "Jack, you—" He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, does it again. "Jack, honey, I know how irrational anxiety can be. And I promise I'm not mad at you. But I need you to think extra hard about whether you really wanna ask if I've had sex with Nursey's forge of _seventeen-year-old you._ "

And maybe it's weird, but that indignation helps. Knowing that Bitty's incensed by the mere thought of doing what Jack's suggesting takes a load off his mind. "Sorry," he says, and mostly means it.

"Nothin' to be sorry for," Bitty assures him with a kiss. "This team takes care of each other, right?"

Jack kisses Bitty again, because he can. "Thank you," he whispers. "For telling me. For trusting me."

Bitty smiles and kisses him again. "Thanks for asking, sweetpea. That couldn't've been easy for you."

"It wasn't," Jack admits, "but it was important."

Jack draws Bitty to him, and for the next half hour, the only thing on either of their minds is the slide of lips against lips and the drag of hands against skin. Only later, when he's sitting on the counter watching Bitty make unnecessary French toast in a kitchen that now bears a notable resemblance to Jack's, does Jack think to say, "I thought Nurse was over Dex."

Bitty snorts and glances over his shoulder at Jack. He's wearing Jack's Team Canada jersey, which is long enough on him to cover the tiny red shorts under it. It's a wonderful look. "Well and truly. What made you think of that?"

Jack drops his gaze, embarrassed. "You said—I mean, you said 'placeholders.'"

Bitty grins. "You sure I was talking about Dex?"

Jack starts at that. "Who?" he asks.

Bitty tsks, waggling the spatula at him. "Uh-uh, Jack Laurent. That is not mine to tell." He eyes Jack speculatively, tapping his fingers on the handle. "But I'll tell you this for free: they're as subtle as a pig in a prom dress. Might be good for your extractory observation skills to watch them. See how long it takes you to work it out."

Jack beams. "Extractory, huh?"

"Chirp, chirp," Bitty says with an eye roll.

"What's my prize when I do?" Jack pitches his voice low and watches Bitty shiver.

Bitty puts down the spatula and comes to stand between Jack's legs. He runs his hands slowly up Jack's thighs, fingertips brushing under the hem of his basketball shorts. "What do you want, sugar?" he purrs.

Jack leans down and tilts Bitty's chin up. "Everything," he murmurs against Bitty's lips.

In dreamspace, your French toast never burns, no matter how long your boyfriend distracts you from it.

*

They don't _just_ talk, make out, and watch the Olympics, although Jack wishes they could. They're here to work.

They run exercises, together and separately. Exercises from their respective therapists, to regulate breathing and calm anxiety. Exercises developed by the original Project Somnacin team (and then forgotten until Bitty read the original reports and spent a weekend sequestered with Arthur and Eames), to sharpen their focus in dreamspace and make them less threatening to projections.

They build mazes out of nothing, fill them with projections for the other to avoid or get around, and leave each other messages in the center. Silly secrets: when Bitty was fourteen and discovered that Gramma Phelps' tri-county famous cream cheese citrus cake was a box mix with orange juice substituted for half the water. Deeper secrets: Jack's fear of the dark. Sweet memories: the first time all three Zimmermanns went ice skating together. Painful memories: the real story of why Bitty gave up figure skating. They're learning each other _and_ improving their job skills. Jack can't think of anything better.

But the third level of a job won't be him and Bitty in an environment they control completely. Things go sideways. The unexpected is a constant companion. Other people's projections never behave as predicted—not even your own team's.

So they change things up on each other. Bitty takes away a staircase Jack built, and Jack gives himself wings in mid-fall. He turns Bitty's spoon into a dandelion, and Bitty drinks his soup from the bowl. They reach the point where they can react with barely a second's hesitation, transforming what been changed into something new, which attracts less attention than reverting to what it had been.

When Bitty wants to congratulate the US men's hockey team on their bronze medal, Jack instead presents him with a team of hulking American football players in Madison High School colors. Bitty flinches, and the projections freeze and turn his way, alert to the possible threat.

Then Bitty smiles, relaxes his shoulders, and holds out a Tupperware container Jack knows he didn't have before they opened the door. In seconds, the players are eating out of his hand—almost literally. Five seconds later they're unconscious, slumped against each other on the floor and snoring peacefully. Jack's never understood how Bitty can _drug a projection_ , but he's smiling. Bitty's got this.

In return, Bitty talks about Kent. What it must've been like to play with him in the Q, and what it might've been like to play against him in the NHL. How furious they were when Kent showed up at Samwell, and how Aces promo videos make him think that Kent Parson must be the loneliest person in the league.

The more Bitty talks about Kenny, the more Jack thinks about him. The heat of his lips. How they always found each other on the ice. The awful things they said to each other in the weeks before the overdose. Kenny's way of insinuating that he was the only person in Jack's corner—and how Jack hadn't recognized the danger in that until he wasn't around it anymore. He thinks about Kenny until his hands shake and his pulse thunders, a strange, doubled sound as his actual pulse swishes in the background.

Bitty talks and talks. Jack thinks and thinks. Kenny doesn't appear.

Jack doesn't fool himself into thinking the job will be this easy. But he thinks he'll be ready anyway.

*

On the fifth evening, they're curled up on the couch in front of the apartment window, drinking hot chocolate and watching the snow fall. Jack had confessed to Olympic fatigue, so Bitty rescheduled the men's gold medal game, Canada vs. Russia ("We do not joke about Alexei Mashkov, Jack"), to tomorrow, and tonight they're resting. Except that Bitty's jostling Jack with his jiggling foot, picking at the fringe on the blanket they're curled under, running his fingers along the handle of his mug in a way that's doing nothing for Jack's composure.

"Bits?" Jack asks gently.

Bitty starts. "Oh. Sorry, Jack. I—" He shifts his arm so it's more secure around Jack's chest. Jack sighs contentedly and settles into the new position. "Did you really not know? I mean, my gosh, we walked in here, and you looked like you were havin' this whole epiphany, complete with ringing bells and sunlight bursting from the clouds, and then I was gettin' kissed."

Jack laughs uncomfortably. "I think the feelings have been there for a while, but I didn't recognize what they were. When my anxiety gets loud, it's hard to hear the quiet things."

Bitty grins. "Well now, one one's ever called me a quiet thing. I do thank you." Jack smirks. Bitty gives a scandalized gasp and clutches his chest. He lowers his hand and says, "Now, when you say 'a while'..."

Jack sighs. He's been thinking about that. "I'm not sure. It was after Toby, because he was good for you, and I was genuinely sad when you broke up."

"Lord, me, too," Bitty grumbles. "I mean, it was about as amicable as breakups gets, but I _still_ get brain freeze when I remember how much ice cream I ate that month."

Jack smiles faintly. "I—I remember leaving Samwell after graduation feeling like I'd forgotten to do something, and maybe that was about you. And the first time you went under, Kenny said something that got me thinking. But—" He shakes his head, frustrated. "I think I really started to feel it with Joey."

Bitty frowns. "Joey Quinones? I went on one boring date with him, what, three years ago? And the next morning, you and Rans and Holster told me about dreamshare and turned my damned world upside-down." His eyes narrow dangerously. "Please tell me you didn't bring me into dreamshare because you felt bad about my boring date."

"What? No! We brought you in because we desperately needed a chemist, and we wanted it to be you. Your tirade about the mediocrity of your life may have influenced the timing, but believe me: that invitation had been under discussion for weeks."

Bitty harrumphs and leans back, appeased. "So why Joey? Why not Toby or the other guys?"

Jack lips his lips, trying to form the swirling thoughts in his head into words that'll make sense to Bitty. That'll make sense to _Jack_. "Joey was... I was in your room that night, helping you get ready."

Bitty snorts. " _I_ recall you sitting on my bed like a lump, but please continue."

The corners of Jack's lips tick up as he continues, "The other guys you'd dated liked us. Or put up with us for your sake. This guy didn't know us. If you'd gotten serious, you could've drifted out of our lives. You were so excited, but... I wasn't okay with it." He swallows hard.

Bitty's all over him in a second, touching his face, peppering tiny kisses across his forehead and cheeks. "Honey, _no_ ," he says, sounding stricken. "Oh, lord, sweetpea, I'm so sorry you got that message outta that. I wasn't excited because Joey didn't know you. I was excited because I'd found him myself. I was almost 23 years old, and one of my college teammates had found every damned guy I'd dated. I wanted to get my own date for once, no matter how badly it turned out."

Jack remembers that, once Bitty came out to the team, Rans and Holster had been aggressive with their spreadsheet, elated to set Bitty up with all the guys Jack wouldn't let them do for him. But was _every_ guy—no, wait, Toby was—no, Lardo had introduced Toby to Bitty, and while she'd been subtler than the guys, she'd left no doubt that she was _introducing_ them.

"I wanted, for once in my danged life, to do this for myself. To not have my friends bring me boys like I was a broken-winged bird who couldn't hunt for myself. Believe me: if he'd lasted long enough to meet you and hadn't liked you, or had tried to keep me from you, he would've been _gone_."

Jack starts to say that it might not have mattered; that when people date outside their circle they fall away. He takes a breath and lets the thought go. Joey's in Bitty's past. Jack's in his present. He intends to be in Bitty's future, too.

"We've been on the third level together before," BItty points out.

"But never alone," Jack says. He can't imagine having this revelation about Bitty with anyone else around to distract him.

Jack resettles his head against Bitty's shoulder and kisses his neck. "What about you?"

Bitty hums, pleased. "What about me what, hon?"

"You said you were tired of pining. How much pining are we talking, here?"

"Oh lord." Bitty puts a hand over his face. "Promise you won't laugh?" Jack hums noncommittally, and Bitty lowers his hand to jab the ticklish spot on Jack's side before mumbling, "It was the pie."

Jack is literally dumbfounded. He lies there for a long time before he can blurt out, " _The_ pie?"

"Oh, hush," Bitty grumbles. "The first one we made together. For Alice's class."

"What?" Jack sits up enough to twist and stare at Bitty's face. "Bits, I was terrible!"

Bitty laughs. "I know! But you were so darned determined. You weren't gonna rest until you got it perfect. And not 'cause you were worried about your grade. You knew how important baking was to me, so you wanted to make the pie well for me. That meant more than I can say. And then at one point I looked at you, and you were so damned gorgeous, with the sunlight in your hair and that little smudge of flour on your face. I was _sunk_."

" _Little_ smudge," Jack huffs, because it's easier than dealing with what Bitty's said.

Jack has never known what to do with compliments about his appearance. People who offer them either want something or are implying that his appearance offsets his personality deficits ("It's a good thing you're pretty," says a memory of Kent; Jack's not sure if it was the projection or the real thing).

Bitty he doesn't seem to want anything in return. And Jack detects no hint of an insult. Bitty compliments Jack because he feels it's true. And Jack doesn't know what to do with that, either.

Jack clears his throat. "Why didn't you do anything?" he asks.

Bitty snorts. "Like rush to my room and cry to my vlog followers about how you should never fall for your captain? I sure did."

"Why didn't you say anything to me? Or ask me out?"

Bitty's snort this time is a sharp, ugly, _wrong_ thing. "Jack Zimmermann. Like you don't know how far out of my league you are."

Jack gives Bitty a look that he hopes expresses his feelings about that.

Bitty's already shaking his head. "To be honest," he says, "I can hardly believe this is happening now. Back then? Not a chance. I was this wisp of a thing fumbling my way through school, barely able to take a check. You were _Jack Zimmermann_. I was well aware of the type of people you dated, and that I didn't fit the type."

Jack blinks. He's not been aware he has a type. "What type do you mean?"

"I mean sunny extroverts who can _mess you up_."

"Bits, _you're_ a sunny extrovert."

"I'm a tiny stress ball with a sunny exterior, Jack." He shakes his head. "No way I stood a chance with a boy who'd dated Camilla 'fastest serve at Samwell' Collins and Oscar 'look at my lion scars' Ndung'u."

"His family operates a wildlife sanctuary."

"Lion scar **s** , Jack. As in, more than one! And maybe _you've_ forgotten the time Sam McNaughton punched Shitty during a kegster, but I sure haven't."

Jack grimaces. "Sam didn't—they weren't—Shitty was cissplaining the gender spectrum _to a nonbinary person_ —"

"He was, and Sam was absolutely right to deck him one. Doesn't change the fact that that moment went on my checklist of reasons I didn't stand a chance with you."

Jack wants to object. But he's not sure. His exes, sure they're extroverts, but they share a more important link: a passion. A single interest they pursue with more focus than any other area of life. Hockey. Tennis. Wildlife protection. Trans equality and punching people who are dicks about it. Bitty's passion is more generalized, and that deeply unsettled Jack in college.

Bitty loves hockey, but not enough to build his life around it. He loves baking but steps away from the oven if a teammate needs him or a spontaneous dance party breaks out. He enjoyed his classes but was indifferent about the homework. He loves dreamshare and is driven to perfect Somnacin in a hundred major and minor ways, but if he were forced to leave the community, he wouldn't be lost without it the way Jack would. The way he is still, some days, lost without hockey.

In college, Jack couldn't understand how anyone could function without one thing that they could focus on, fill their lives with, until the anxious voices in their heads could find no more room. These days, Jack understands that some people don't have anxious voices in their heads, and that he doesn't need to stress over the way other people choose to live their lives. In college—well.

Jack doesn't believe that everything happens for a reason. But he _does_ believe that everything happens in its own time. Maybe he would've said yes if Bitty had asked him out back then. But he wouldn't have been ready. They could've had a few good weeks or months, but they couldn't have had _this_.

Jack drifts, thinking about those days. Having abandoned his NHL dreams and the stress that came with them, he'd been at his least anxious since childhood. But as junior year turned into senior and he had no idea what to do with his life, a new dread had crept in, which he'd kept at bay by suggesting increasingly ludicrous careers he might hold after graduation. In fact, the day they'd made the hopeless pie that apparently made Bitty fall in love with him, Jack had suggested opening a bakery/art gallery with Lardo, so they could sell Jack's lopsided pies and scorched muffins as high art, an idea that Bitty had laughed at at the time and later—

"Wait."

Bitty presses his cheek against Jack's hair. "What?"

"You went on a date that weekend. You went on _two_ dates that weekend. With two different guys!"

Bitty jams a finger into Jack's ribs. "Jack Laurent Zimmermann, I _know_ you aren't shaming me for how many boys I went around with."

"No, no!" Jack insists, unsuccessfully attempting to get away from the merciless fingers. "I meant—you got over your crush quickly."

"Oh, honey, I wasn't over it." He shakes his head. "It's my own darned fault for not triple-checking who-all was home. Ransom overheard me making my pity-party vlog entry and figured out it was about a boy—not which boy, thank goodness. He insisted that I go out with one of the guys on his spreadsheet. Said the best way to get over someone—"

"—was to get under someone else." Jack rolls his eyes. Ransom had told him the same thing when Sam broke up with him.

"It was fun, but the guy had just been through a breakup and wasn't looking for much. So Holster found someone else. And then Chowder had a friend, and—it got to be a game: who can find Bitty a boy who sticks? Lardo got a prize when me and Toby hit six weeks. It was a good time for me. I never entirely got over you—you're not a boy a body gets over—but I wasn't sitting around pining all the time."

That chimes Jack's memory. "But you said pining. Said you were tired of doing it."

"Ah. Well." Bitty huffs a small laugh. "When you're a closeted gay boy in small-town Georgia, you tell yourself certain things to get through. You say, 'Hold out til college. You'll meet all sorts of boys there. And if you don't meet _the_ boy, after college is the whole danged world, and you're sure to meet him then.'" He gives a wry laugh. "Instead, after college I got recruited into a small, secretive world where most of the boys are either already in relationships or... unsavory."

Jack remembers Bitty's first encounter with Dom and bursts out laughing.

"Compared to them," Bitty says, tweaking Jack's ear, "I couldn't help noticing again how amazing you are."

Jack squirms. There Bitty goes again, dropping compliments like he doesn't think anything of it. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe it's as easy for him as reciting the recipe for pecan pie.

It's not easy for Jack, but he'll try. Try to accept Bitty's compliments and give them in return. He's glad they have the time to learn how to do it right.

*

They devote their last day on the third level to each other. No exercises, no challenges. They don't go to closing ceremonies. They barely leave the bed or the couch. Mostly it's touch and murmured conversation and a thrumming undertone of _soon, soon._ They've been in dreamshare too long to call anything they're doing down here "not real" or "just a dream," but they're aching for the connection that only comes when skin meets skin.

They don't pack or clean up. When all four lines on the ingenious watches Chowder designed for them—three dream levels and topside—line up, they chime merrily. Bitty groans and pulls himself off Jack's lap slowly and reluctantly. He looks immaculately put-together, and Jack can't wait to see him rumpled and undone.

They walk to the apartment door slowly, hand-in-hand. A mess of emotions swirl in Jack, like always when he leaves a place where major life moments have happened. He reminds himself that he's not really leaving, because it's inside his mind, and the sadness recedes.

At the door, Bitty looks around one last time. While Jack watches, the apartment restores itself to the condition it was in when they found it. Little things they've moved put themselves back where they started, the dinner dishes are cleaned and put away. A needless action, since this apartment will cease to exist the second they leave the level, but Bitty's need to leave a place the way he found it ( _or better,_ Jack thinks with a wince, remembering the Haus's pre-Bitty days) is deeply ingrained. When he's done, he looks up at Jack, smiling, and says, "You ready, honey?"

Jack starts to open the door, but Bitty grips his wrist hard and pulls him around. When Jack looks down, startled, Bitty is staring up at him with near-panic in his eyes. "Bits?"

"Jack," Bitty says, and it's the most serious Jack's ever heard him, "I want us to make a promise."

"Anything, lapinou." Jack shouldn't make blanket statements like that, but in this moment he can't think of anything Bitty would ask that he wouldn't be willing to give.

"Except when it's absolutely necessary and we can't do it ourselves, I don't want us killing each other out of dreams."

Jack blinks. That is not what he expected. "Okay?"

"I mean it, Jack," Bitty says. "Eames and Arthur shoot each other out every time. They say it's romantic, and a sign of how much they trust each other. I trust you more than anybody in the world. But that is _not_ romantic to me. I couldn't stand it, us killing each other over and over."

Jack lets go of the door and pulls Bitty in for a crushing hug. "Yeah, no, never," he says, the words tumbling over each other in his rush to reassure Bitty. "That would be—" He can't contemplate it. He wishes he could tell Bitty about the device Chowder's working on, that will give dreamers a way out of the dream that doesn't require suicide or homicide. It's going to (once again) revolutionize dreamshare, but he's promised to keep it to himself until Chowder's more certain that it works. "Only if we're out of other options. I promise." Bitty relaxes, and Jack chuckles. "I admire how solid and long-lived Eames and Arthur's marriage is. But I would never look at them as relationship role models."

Bitty laughs and nods, pulling away enough that Jack can step to the door. "Let's do this, then."

Jack opens the door and ushers them out of the apartment. They don't bother walking to the gate they entered through; they step through the doorway and into the grow room in Montréal.

"Henry?" Mémé calls from the hall outside the sewing room.

A wave of panicked guilt assaults Jack, but he reminds himself that he's a grown adult and doesn't need be shielded from the fact that his grandparents grow weed in their closet. He also reminds himself that _this isn't happening._

Bitty must feel the same way, or at least understand what Jack's feeling, because he hustles them out of the closet at top speed, closing it securely behind them, before motioning for Jack to answer.

"Henry," Mémé calls again, "is that you?"

"No, Mémé," Jack says, opening the sewing room door, "it's us."

Mémé smiles and takes Jack's hand, leading him out of the room. "Jacques," she chides teasingly, "you know you're not supposed to be in there."

«Désolé, Mémé», Jack says sheepishly as he lets her lead him out of the room.

"You, too, Eric," Mémé says, and Bitty looks startled for a second and then rushes to catch up, laughing quietly to himself.

They spend the day together. They stay in the apartment, because after a week on the third level, Jack's not up to creating the entire neighborhood. Bitty and Jack's grandparents charm the stuffing out of each other. Jack prods the conversation once in a while—"Pépé, tell Bittle about the time you…" and "Bittle, don't you have an aunt who…" But mostly he's content to drift on the conventional current and bask in the people he loves being able to meet each other. His grandparents' stories come out garbled, because they're Jack's memories of those stories. Bitty seems content enough with that.

When it's time to leave, Mémé hugs Jack so hard he swears he hears his body creaking. «You hold onto that boy, do you hear me»? she whispers fiercely.

Jack grips back tightly and swallows around the lump in his throat. He's not sure what's hitting him harder: the fact that he feels strongly enough about Bitty to put those words in a projection's mouth, or the firm belief that when he introduces Bitty and Mémé topside, he'll have this conversation again. «I'm going to try», he promises.

«Good». She steps back and pats his cheek. «You're a good boy, Jack. You always have been». Then she walks away to give Bitty another hug so Jack can fall apart without anyone watching.

After a minute, Bitty comes up beside Jack. "Ready, sweetpea?" he asks. He's smiling, and he looks equally ready to support Jack or leave him be.

That alone is enough for Jack to smile back and say, "Whenever you are."

Bitty's quiet as they climb up the fire escape to the first level. Jack's grateful for the space to sort himself out. They're mostly enjoyable emotions, what he's feeling, but there are too many at once.

He thinks Bitty's going to speak as they enter the apartment, but Jack's timer chimes, and Bitty abandons whatever it was in favor of rolling his eyes at Jack's smug grin.

Jack conjures up a gun, and Bitty pulls out his poison capsule. (Bitty's never said what's in it, and Jack's never asked. The team finds it horrifying, but Bitty prefers it to a gun.) Bitty asked once if his choice of deaths bothered Jack, because of the overdose, and at the time, it hadn't. Watching his boyfriend convulse on the couch before fading out of the dream has him rethinking that stance. As soon as this job's over, he's offering Chowder all his support and resources to get that device field-ready.

Jack pulls the trigger and wakes up in his recliner. Bitty's wide awake and watching him with a soft smile.

And there it is. Like when they'd walked onto the third level and all his feelings had suddenly made sense. It's muffled by the flood of external stimuli rushing in, but it feels the same. He smiles and holds out his hand. "I love you."

Bitty's soft smile turns blinding as he grabs Jack's hand and holds on tight. "I love you, too, Jack."

They let go long enough to unhook themselves and put away the PASIV. Then Jack takes Bitty's hand again, pulling them both gently to their feet.

And now here they stand, face-to-face in the flesh for the first time since their relationship changed. Jack grins. "Hey, Bits."

Bitty smiles back. "Hey, sweetpea."

When Jack pictured this moment—and he pictured it _so many times_ on the third level—it came down to getting each other's clothes off and then getting each other off. He'd imaged it slow and reverent or ravenous and rushed, but it definitely involved copious nudity and orgasms.

What happens is this: Jack leans down, and Bitty stretches up, and they're kissing for the first time topside. Jack revels in the sensations he hadn't had in the dream: the heat of Bitty's skin beneath his fingers as he strokes them along Bitty's jaw; the sweetness of his lips against Jack's. Jack's other hand teases under the hem of Bitty's shirt; Bitty's fingers ghost inside the waistband of Jack's pants. Jack groans at the sensation.

Bitty pulls back, his teeth dragging across Jack's lower lip as he goes. He looks up with those wide, warm, brown eyes that never glowed right in the dream—and he yawns in Jack's face.

Jack blinks. Bitty's eyes widen, and he claps a hand over his mouth, holding in a hysterical giggle.

"Oh," Jack says. Suddenly, it hits him, a crashing wave of exhaustion that leaves him swaying on his feet.

"Jack, I am so sorry!" Bitty says.

Jack shakes his head. "It's been a long night."

Bitty rolls his eyes. "We slept in recliners for three minutes. It's not even 10:30!"

Jack takes Bitty's hands and shakes them gently. "Bittle," he says, letting a touch of "captain voice" seep into his tone. "Our bodies slept for three minutes, but our minds put in an eight-day week. It makes sense for us to be tired. Also, we have to be at the airport in five and a half hours."

Bitty squints at him. "Are _you_ tired?"

"Frankly, I'm amazed I'm still upright," Jack admits.

"Well, all right, then," Bitty says. Getting Bitty to admit what he wants, without checking to make sure it won't interfere with what anyone else wants, is a longstanding struggle. He lets Jack chivvy him toward the bathroom to wash up and brush his teeth, but calls as he goes, "But I got plans for you, mister. _Big_ plans."

Jack gives Bitty a nudge before going to the main office area and setting up the fold-out. It wouldn't work for Bitty's big plans, anyway, but it'll do for one short night. Jack grins. They'll have plenty of time for big plans in Vegas and after. A long, _long_ after, if he and Bitty are on the same page about that.

Jack heads toward the bathroom when he hears Bitty coming out. He grabs Bitty around the waist as they pass, dipping him into a kiss. Bitty grins but then grimaces faintly. "You smell like airplane," he says, which is what he always says about people who've been plugged into the PASIV.

Jack washes up and brushes his teeth more thoroughly than he usually bothers with when he's this tired, so Bitty doesn't have sleep next to his airplane smell. He takes off his jeans, socks, and overshirt. Then after a moment's hesitation, he pulls off his undershirt, so he's down to his boxer briefs.

He studies himself in the mirror. He's in good shape, he thinks, although not as toned as he would be if he were still playing hockey every day. Dreamshare isn't the most physically active profession (especially these days, when it rarely includes getting chased across the city by armed gunmen in the employ of a pissed-off mark). But he works out, and the team plays hockey together two or three times a week. He's not hideous. Bits will think he's good enough. Won't he?

Jack pulls his shirt toward him. Then he stops, squeezes the fabric hard, and turns out the light. He sweeps up the rest of his clothes and walks out of the bathroom before he can think too hard about it.

When he comes around the corner into the main office area, he freezes. Bitty's sitting up in bed, scrolling through his phone. He's shirtless, and with the way the sheets pool around his waist, Jack can't tell if he's wearing anything at all. Jack swallows and stumbles forward.

Bitty glances up and smiles sheepishly. "Hey. I was—I forgot I don't have a week's worth of tweets to catch up on." He looks up again, his gaze catches on Jack's chest. His mouth drops open and his pupils dilate. His tongue darts out to wet his lips.

Feeling bold, Jack drops his clothes on a chair and saunters to the bed. He lifts the sheets and slides into the bed next. It squeaks, and Jack grimaces but forgets it when Bitty reaches for him. Bitty's small, warm hands with their long, dexterous fingers slide up Jack's chest, across his shoulders, and down his arms. He laces their fingers together and tugs Jack in for a kiss.

"Do you know how gorgeous you are, Jack Zimmermann?" he asks against Jack's lips.

Jack puffs out a tiny laugh. "You've seen me shirtless before."

"Not like this I haven't," Bitty says, loosing one hand to slide up Jack's chest. He flicks a nipple, runs his fingers through Jack's chest hair—it feels nice, but Jack's body is too exhausted to do anything more than register the sensations.

Jack kisses Bitty again and again. They shift gradually until they're lying down facing each other, trading slow kisses that grow slower as the minutes wear on. It gets harder to open his eyes between each one. Jack falls asleep and doesn't dream.

*

When Jack's phone alarm wakes him up, the other side of the bed is empty but warm. A delicious smell fills the space, dough and cinnamon and melted butter. Curious and confused, he gets out of bed and pads to the kitchen. Bitty's bent over the oven, and Jack doesn't hesitate to enjoy all the tanned skin made visible by super-short shorts and a loose white tank top.

He's not stupid, though, so he waits until Bitty sets the pan on a cooling rack and closes the oven door before he says, "Morning, bud."

Bitty jumps and whirls, wide smile in place. "Mornin', sweetpea! Your timing is perfect. I was just pulling these cinnamon rolls out of the oven. I'll get ready while they cool, and by the time we leave for the airport, they'll be ready, too!"

Jack looks at his watch again, to be sure. "It's 3:00 in the morning. We went to bed at 10:30. When did you have time to make cinnamon rolls?"

Bitty shrugs and looks confused, himself. "Well, I was up a couple minutes early. You know how these things happen."

Okay. Sometimes, baked goods just… happen around Bitty, but this is ridiculous. He crosses to the bed and pulls his totem from his pants pocket. _Happy Birthday August 3!_ Apparently his waking reality now includes a boyfriend who either severely downplays his insomnia or has mastered the art of sleep-baking. Both options seem equally feasible.

Jack grabs Bitty as he comes around the end of the counter and pulls him into a kiss, slow and familiar. Bitty's lips taste like cinnamon sugar, and his fingers curl warmly around Jack's biceps. When he hums happily, Jack feels the vibrations in his own lips and has to fight not to laugh.

"I could get used to starting my days like this," Bitty says, smiling up at Jack.

Jack couldn't agree more. "Maybe not cinnamon rolls every morning," he says.

"Of course not." Bitty rolls his eyes. "Sometimes I'd make pancakes."

Jack laughs and kisses Bitty once more before heading toward the bathroom to get ready. It's not ideal; they haven't done any remodeling here, so they're typical office building bathrooms, one with two stalls and three urinals, one with four stalls, each with a row of sinks. No showers, negligible storage, no privacy. They have remodeling plans, but there never seems to be enough time.

Bitty comes in, already dressed, as Jack's brushing his teeth. They stand side-by-side at the sinks in companionable quiet. When Bitty leaves the bathroom, he gives Jack's ass an appreciative grope. Jack grins at him in the mirror.

"You wouldn't, uh, _have to_ shave," Bitty says from the bathroom doorway, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. He clears his throat. "Scruffy looks good on you."

Jack looks at the flushed skin of Bitty's throat and blurts, "And I bet beard burn looks good on you."

Bitty's blush intensifies and, Jack notes delightedly, disappears below the edges of his shirt. But he grins slyly and murmurs, "I do like you, Mr. Zimmermann," before slipping out of the bathroom. Jack carefully caps his shaving cream and sets the razor on the narrow shelf above the sink.

They finish getting ready with minimal fuss. Once they're done in the bathroom, their toiletries go into their go-bags, sitting ready by the door. They strip the bed and fold it into couch shape. Bitty mystically finds time to ice the cinnamon rolls. Jack orders a Lyft. "Ten minutes," he tells Bitty.

The sly smile comes back as Bitty hops up onto the kitchenette's scuffed counter. "Whatever will we do with ourselves?" he muses.

Jack steps up between Bitty's legs. His hands run up Bitty's thighs and under his shirt, already addicted to the heat of his skin. Bitty loops his arms around Jack's shoulders, and his fingertips drag lightly across the hair at the nape of Jack's neck. They kiss, and keep kissing until Jack's out of oxygen, until they're half-hard and delighting in the frustration of it. Until Jack's phone tells him the car's here.

Jack climbs into the Lyft and slides across to the driver's side. Bitty crawls in after him and slides to the middle. He fits himself into Jack's side and nudges his shoulder against Jack's arm until Jack wraps an arm around him. Bitty sighs contentedly and reaches across Jack's lap to grab his other hand.

"I'm gonna talk to Nursey as soon as I get the chance," Bitty says quietly.

"Hey, only if you wa—"

"I'm gonna talk to Nursey," he says again. It's dark in the car, only street lamps and the rare oncoming headlight illuminating them intermittently. But Jack sees the unwavering seriousness of Bitty's expression. Jack nods. Bitty nods back, appeased. Then he sighs. "But telling the others…"

Jack's stomach plummets as Bitty's voice trails off. "You don't want them to know?" he asks. He hates how small and unsure his voice sounds.

"Oh, honey, _no_ ," Bitty says immediately. "I want 'em to know. I want the _world_ to know." His lips pinch together. "It's not the knowing I mind. It's the telling."

Jack remembers, with sudden sharpness, that coming out to his parents had not gone well for Bitty. Jack isn't surprised that he's not a big fan of that process.

Jack smiles slowly. "Okay, then. Let's not."

Bitty blinks up at him. "Do _you_ want people to know?"

"I do. But let's just... be us." He gives Bitty's shoulder a squeeze that he hopes reminds Bitty how rare it is for him to be this physically affectionate with anyone.

"Oh," Bitty says softly, settling in more thoroughly. "I like that."

Jack presses a kiss to the top of his head. "Let's see how long it takes them to figure it out."

*

Jack and Bitty reach the airport first, but they've just settled at the gate when Bitty stands again and says, "Nursey's here. I'm gonna snag them and find a place to talk. You okay here?"

"I'm fine," Jack assures him. "Do you want me to come with you?"

Bitty's expression gets complicated, and he cups Jack's cheek gently with his hand for a long beat before swooping down to kiss him. "You're sweet to offer, but I got this. You try to rest, okay?"

"Sure thing, Bits," Jack says.

Bitty walks away, and Jack pulls his book from his go-bag. It's a historical thriller he's read at least twice, his favorite kind of reading for long flights. He opens it to the bookmarked page, but then he holds it and watches Bitty approach Nursey. He's too far away to hear what they're saying, but Bitty's posture looks open and friendly, and he doesn't seem nervous. Nursey looks confused but not upset, and they go easily when Bitty points at a small business lounge off to the side. Jack smiles and turns to his book, getting engrossed in it in seconds, though he knows how it goes.

" _Fuck_ red-eyes," Shitty announces as his lumpy go-bag hits the floor next to Jack's feet. "Fuck them in their red, red eyes."

"Eww, thanks for that," Lardo says. She chooses a seat across from them and settles herself carefully in the unyielding contours of the hard plastic chair.

Dom has told Jack, repeatedly, that having his team travel together is madness. "Dreamshare's more civilized," he says, "but it's not _that_ civilized. Split up. Make yourselves less of a target. One well-placed bomb, and your entire team's gone!"

But this is his team, and he wants them where he can see them. He's twitchy enough flying without Ransom, Holster, and Chowder (who has a non-negotiable obligation to Farmer and will join them in Vegas later today).

So far, no one's come after them. They aren't a big enough deal. They mostly confine themselves to the US and Canada, and because they're not going after the lucrative corporate jobs that are the bread and butter of most people in the business, they're not competition for anyone. Their marks pose a bigger danger than anyone in dreamshare, and most of their marks are either in jail or tied up in fifty years' worth of litigation. Jack worries about many things in his life, but this isn't one of them.

Jack holds out the Tupperware. "Cinnamon roll?"

Shitty falls on the container like a starving man, yanking out a roll and eating half of it in one bite. The noise he makes has the other people at the gate looking at him, with expressions ranging from alarmed to appalled. "Jevuf Chrift," Shitty says, spewing crumbs, "these are better than sex."

Lardo raises her eyebrows. Shitty doesn't notice. Lardo snorts and turns her attention to the container. "Brah, when the fuck did Bits have time to make cinnamon rolls?"

Jack shakes his head. "I've been asking myself that all morning."

Lardo laughs. Then she sits back. "You know what? I'm going to wait. It's too early in the morning."

"Speak for yourself," Shitty says, already reaching for another roll.

Lardo smirks. "Without Rans and Holtzy's vacuum cleaner faces around, it feels nice to be able to wait and know something will be left later."

Shitty points his roll at her. "Don't be so sure of that, spouse o'mine."

Before Lardo can reply, a heavy thud announces Ford's arrival. Her giant Army surplus duffel bag hits the floor, and Ford herself falls into the chair next to Lardo's. She leans forward, snags a roll, and glares at Jack. "These red-eyes have to stop, Jack," she says. Because her time at Samwell didn't overlap Jack's, she's the least deferential of teammember. Jack often needs that.

He spreads his hands. "Rans and Holster arrange the flights."

Ford throws up her hands. "On your instructions!"

Jack frowns. He looks at Shitty and Lardo, but they shrug. Jack frowns harder. Some jobs require a precision strike, which can be made easier by a late or early flight. But he can't recall having issued that as a standing order. He'll talk to Holster and Ransom when they get back. "Oh, hey," he says, "how are they? Better, I hope?"

"Brah, what?" Shitty demands. "They're violently expelling the contents of their intestines from both ends as we speak." Ford and Lardo grimace. Jack and Shitty stare at each other. Shitty starts laughing. "Motherfucking third level, hey, Jacko?"

Jack sighs and shakes his head. He'll treasure his time on the third level with Bitty for the rest of his life, but it's jarring to come back and adjust to the fact that they _weren't_ gone for eight days.

"How'd that go, anyway?" Lardo asks.

Jack smiles. "It went well. We were at the Winter Olympics."

Shitty snorts and claps Jack on the shoulder. "I admire your consistency, brah," he says. Jack doesn't correct his misapprehension.

"Hey, are Derek and Bitty okay?" Ford asks. "They looked intense when I walked past."

"Whoa, what, Bitty and Nursey are here?" Shitty demands.

"I totally missed them," Lardo says.

"I notice things!" Ford snaps, more defensively than the conversation warrants. Jack eyes her, but she doesn't look back.

Huh.

"We're here; we're okay." Bitty bustles up, Nursey trailing more sedately behind him. Bitty hugs everyone and reclaims his seat next to Jack, squeezing his knee briefly as he sits. "Sorry 'bout that, y'all."

Nursey stands in front of Jack with a fist out. Knowing they'll stand there until they get what they want, Jack bumps it reluctantly. Nursey grins. "Nice one, bro," they say. They wink and saunter over to sit next to Ford and aggressively not look at her.

 _Huh_.

"Bros," Lardo says, "what was that for?"

" _That,_ " Bitty says, rolling his eyes, "was for Derek Nurse being an award-winning poet and well-respected English professor—"

"Four and a half flames at hotprof.com!" Nursey says cheerfully.

"—but their dictionary seems to be missing the entries for 'subtlety' and 'tact.'"

Nursey shrugs. "Missed that day in poet school." They and Bitty smile at each other. Jack will never know what they said to each other, but the mood feels easy. Resolved. With no hard feelings on either side.

Even down three, the team feels solid and settled. Jack feels good about this.

*

The team flies first class. More expensive, but it helps ensure that they arrive for a job in peak condition.

Jack and Bitty are in the last row of the section, by the bathrooms. As soon as they sit down, Jack puts up the armrest and pulls Bitty flush against his side. Bitty laughs softly and takes Jack's hand. They accept juice from the flight attendant and share another cinnamon roll, eating and drinking one-handed so they don't have to let go of each other. It's the most publicly demonstrative Jack's ever been.

"Nobody's caught on so far," Bitty says as the fasten seatbelt light shuts off.

"Won't be long," Jack replies. "Here comes Lardo." Bitty starts to flinch away, but Jack holds him steady. "Being us, remember?" he murmurs, and smiles when Bitty relaxes against him.

Lardo's eyebrows are up and her smile is smug as she approaches them. "You are so lucky I have to piss so badly," she hisses as she walks past. Bitty buries his face in Jack's shoulder to muffle his laughter.

When Lardo comes back, she slots herself into the space between Bitty's knees and the seat in front of him. She angles her body toward Jack and crosses her arms, well and truly trapping Bitty and Jack.

Bitty meets Lardo's gaze head-on. "Ms. Duan."

She nods. "Mr. Bittle." The little smirk comes back. "How were the Olympics?"

"Cold," Bitty says in an even voice that has Jack stifling laughter.

"Good thing you had a nice, big Canadian to warm you up, then."

Bitty smiles. "Sure is."

Lardo lets out an uncharacteristic squeal. "Oh my god, dudes, I'm so happy for you!" She hugs them as best she can in the confines of the space. "Bitty, bro, deets."

Bitty rolls his eyes. "Larissa, I'm not gonna give you deets about Jack while he's sitting right here."

"Hmm." Lardo nods. "Good point. Sunday morning, after we're done. Deets Brunch."

" _No,_ " Bitty says firmly.

"Bitty," Lardo says in a tone that holds a wealth of meaning that Jack can't fathom.

"This is different," Bitty says.

Lardo shakes her head. "We did one after my first date with Shitty. Fair's fair, bro."

Bitty slumps and looks at Jack, who kisses his temple and says, "I trust you. Make me sound good, eh?"

"All right, you win," Bitty says. "Sunday morning."

"'Swawesome." Lardo squeezes Jack's shoulder. "You two are the real deal," she says. "Oh, and _now_ I'll take a cinnamon roll. Actually, I'll take two. Eating for two, right?" Bitty pulls out the container, two-thirds empty. Lardo takes two, waves, and slides into the aisle and to her seat.

"That's one," Jack says.

They lose count quickly. Suddenly, every member of their team needs the bathroom, or has a question about the job, or wants another cinnamon roll. Nursey waggles their eyebrows so much Jack worries they'll give themself a headache. Ford high-fives them repeatedly. Shitty makes so many innuendos about two-man luge they'll never be able to watch the sport again without turning crimson.

They all have the in-flight wifi, and Jack isn't surprised when his and Bitty's phones buzz.

 **HOLSTER:** bros as soon as rans & i r well enough to do anything but vomit, we're going to chirp you both SO HARD

Bitty huffs, and his reply pops up on Jack's screen a second later.

 **BITTLE:** thanks for yr support mr. birkholtz

 **HOLSTER:** we chrips bc we loves

Jack snorts and puts his phone away before he can be drawn into the debate. Besides, Nursey and their ridiculous eyebrows are headed their way again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Kent Parson being something of a manipulative butthead in this chapter.

Settling into their enormous suite at the Grand Chateau requires some finesse, as team dynamics have altered since the reservations were made. Shitty and Lardo head toward the bedroom they'd scoped out on the website, cackling as they go. Jack's ready to head for the room he and Bitty will be sharing (which Bitty was originally going to be sharing with Nursey, which Jack tries not to feel weird about), but looks over to find Bitty and Nursey having a staredown. Then Ford rushes, as much as she can with that giant duffle bag (was the thing communal to an entire unit?) toward one of the other rooms with a gleeful, "Room to myself! Suck it, boys!"

Nursey's eyes widen, and Bitty throws up his hands. "That's that, then," Bitty says. He picks up his bag and saunters toward the room on the far left. Jack tears his eyes away from Bitty's swaying hips and ass to scramble after him. In the room, Bitty drops his bag on the floor and then throws himself dramatically onto one of the beds, sighing heavily.

"You okay, bud?"

"They're gonna put blue dye in my shampoo or itching powder in my socks, you see if they don't."

Jack frowns as he approaches the foot of the bed. "Are they mad? About you breaking things off?"

Bitty snorts. " _No_. They're mad that my taking my shot with you gives them one less excuse not to take one with—" Bitty smiles. "Well."

"Ford, right?" Jack says, maybe a hair too eagerly. "It's Ford, isn't it?"

Bitty beams. "Well deduced, Mr. Zimmermann," he says, his voice dropping into a sultry register. "I do believe I promised you a prize for that."

Jack groans. He leans over the bed and gives Bitty a long, slow, thorough kiss. "I'd like nothing better," he murmurs against Bitty's lips and then shoves himself upright. "But we have a long day ahead of us." He holds out his hand and Bitty grabs it, letting Jack pull him upright. "Rain check?"

"Rain check, snow check, any ol' weather you want, sweetie."

Jack smiles and steers them into the living room. Shitty and Lardo have overtaken the largest couch, which _should_ be big enough to hold at least four but which somehow barely accommodates the two of them. Jack rolls his eyes and drops into one of the flanking armchairs, tugging Bitty into his lap. A minute later, Ford sits in the other chair, and Chowder and Nursey appear from their bedroom, squabbling like siblings and only stopping once they're settled on the love seat (although, given how many times they've poked each other in the ribs since they sat down, Jack's not sure it counts as stopping).

Jack's aware that he's not looking dignified or leaderly, with Bitty draped across his lap and his hand rubbing slow circles on Bitty's back under his shirt. Shitty smirks, and Jack uses his free hand to flip him off while saying, "Let's review assignments for the rest of the day."

Bitty says, "Checking my set-up to make sure nothing was damaged in transit. Getting Kent's latest biometrics." In the past, standard Somnacin dosages were based on age and sex, and no one tuned them any finer. Bitty, with help from Ransom's extensive knowledge of human anatomy and biochemistry, has turned it into a more exact science, calculating dosage by a complex matrix of factors that Jack doesn't try to understand. Few people saw the point at first, but as dreamers started to notice that people who use Bitty's mixes, to his specifications, never wake up with a Somnacin headache, they came around to his way of thinking.

Has Jack mentioned lately how proud he is of his team?

"Time the runs between the hotel, Kent's apartment, the club, and the arena," Ford says.

Lardo points at Ford. "I'm with Ford, looking for details I might want to add to the design."

"I am literally just here for casinos and sunshine," Shitty says, lacing his fingers behind his head. Lardo pokes his thigh with her toe.

Nursey half raises their hand. "I'm following Jack around while we stalk Kent Parson."

"It's not stalking—" Jack catches Nursey's shit-eating grin and clamps his mouth shut. He will not be drawn into this debate again. Especially since Nursey's right. It's SOP for a forger to spend time following the person they're going to forge, observing nuances of motion and presentation. It's never seemed weird before. Then again, Jack's never been the forge before. "I'm observing the mark and planting suggestions," Jack says. "Meet here before dinner?" Vegas overwhelms Jack, and he doesn't want to face it alone if he doesn't have to.

Lardo swings her legs off Shitty's lap and stands. "Sure," she says, "but you're dreaming if you think you're going to get all six of us to agree on a place."

"I believe in us!" Shitty crows, jumping to his feet.

They split up. Ford and Lardo head to the rental car. Chowder and Bitty stay in the room to test their equipment. Shitty wanders out of the room to do who knows what. Jack follows Nursey onto the streets of Las Vegas. Jack, who had dressed for the 40-degree morning they'd left in Boston, immediately starts to sweat under the brim of the Rimouski snapback Ransom dug up online. Nursey, who never seems bothered by any weather anywhere, puts on sunglasses and smiles. "First stop: Purrson's."

Jack can't decide whether he's surprised that Kenny took over a small casino/dance club at the edge of the Strip. He's not at all surprised that Kenny's first act as club owner was to rename it after his cat.

Purrson's isn't busy at 11 o'clock on a Friday morning. Jack worries for all of two seconds—the goal is for Kenny to catch glimpses of Jack from the corner of his eye, uncertain of what he's seen, not to straight up spot him walking through the club he owns. Then he realizes that every eye in the place is on Nursey. They won't notice Jack.

Jack finds a conveniently placed bit of drapery and lets himself fade into the background. Nursey leans against the bar and bats their eyes outrageously at the bartender. Eames would be so proud. Less than five minutes later, Kenny appears from the back and makes his way toward Nursey while trying to look like he's not.

Kenny looks the same as the last time Jack saw him in person. He still dresses like he did as a teenager—backward snapback, a neutral-toned flannel over a tight T-shirt, baggy jeans, ratty sneakers. The only things that mark him as an NHL superstar and successful businessman are that his snapback says "Aces," his T-shirt has the Purrson's logo on it, and his shoes, although they look like they've been through hell and back, are high-end Nikes that were surely an endorsement perk.

Kenny leans against the bar next to Nursey. Jack lifts his hand toward his earpiece. Then he stops. Nursey has this handled, and as much as he's over Kenny, he's not eager to hear him flirt with someone else. Anyway, he doesn't need to hear it when it's plain as day in their body language: Nursey's got Kenny, hook, line, and sinker.

Jack waits until Nursey motions for a second drink—their agreed-upon signal. He pulls the Rimouski cap further down on his head, waits until Kenny looks away from Nursey, and steps out from behind the curtain. He keeps his head down and his stride purposeful as he walks out of the club, fully visible in the mirror above the bar. He doesn't look to see if Kenny reacts.

Around the corner, a block and a half up the street, Jack buys a _Review-Journal_ from a newsstand, finds a shaded bench, and sits down to read.

He's finishing the crossword puzzle when a warm body drops onto the bench next to him. "48 across. 'Longitudinal.'"

Jack scratches the letters into the spaces and smiles faintly as the downs around it become clear. "Thank you, Professor."

Nursey grins and turns their face toward the sun. "Phase I complete. Good job, by the way. He was twitchy the entire time after you left."

Jack feels briefly guilty but shoves it aside. They need Kenny on-board with what happens next. "You get his number?"

Nursey holds out a Purrson's napkin with a phone number scrawled on it. "And a clear glance at his ID. I thought his middle name was Victor."

Jack laughs. "'The V stands for victory.' Yeah, no, it's Valentine."

Nursey chuckles. "Kenneth Valentine Parson. Will wonders never cease."

"You give him your number?" Jack asks.

Nursey shrugs. "I gave him _a_ number."

Jack snorts. "Where to next?"

Nursey shrugs again. "I think we have time for coffee."

They don't want to overdo it today. A couple almost-sightings to shake Kenny up. Then the big sighting at the Aces-Schooners game tomorrow, to plant the idea of Jack in his mind so he'll roll with the dream more easily.

They find a non-chain coffee shop a few blocks off the Strip. Jack orders an iced americano. Nursey gets a ridiculous-sounding pour-over and spends the whole time it's brewing regaling Jack with the history of coffee production in the region of the world the beans came from.

When the coffee's ready, Nursey raises an eyebrow at Jack. "You let me keep going."

Jack shrugs. "It was interesting."

"Really."

Jack nods. "History nerd, remember?"

"Huh," Nursey says.

They sip in silence for a minute, except for the little appreciative noises Nursey can't seem to help making. Then Jack looks down at his cup and says quietly, "Is it—are you okay with it?"

Nursey looks at their mug, confused. Then they study Jack's face, and their expression clears. "What did Bitty tell you?"

Jack sets his jaw. "I'd prefer to hear it from you," he says. "I know how you feel about people speaking for you."

Nursey laughs humorlessly. " _Dex,_ " they say. "I hated _Dex_ speaking for me, because his dumb ass was always wrong. Bitty I trust more." They swirl their coffee and take a minute. "Bitty's amazing, you know? Like, one day, someone's gonna fall for him from a great height, and he's gonna do it back. It just wasn't me." They glance up, taking Jack's measure. "Or maybe it's already happened?"

Jack ducks his head, but he knows Nursey sees his smile anyway.

"I'm happy for you, Jack, and that's for real." More sternly, they add, "You'd better take care of him."

Jack splutters. "Bittle is more than capable of taking care of himself."

"Sure," Nursey says easily, "but it'll be good that he won't have to." They rap their knuckles on the table. "I gave him the same talk, by the way." Jack looks up, and Nursey waggles a finger. "You take a lot on yourself, man, don't think we don't know it. Especially this job. Maybe it'll be nice to share that burden? And I don't just mean with Bitty. We're a team, Cap. We got your back."

Jack closes his eyes. He _has_ been taking on more than his usual share on this job—of the work and of the emotions that go with it. He's felt like he has to, since he's the one who shares a checkered past with Kenny. He never wants to put that shit on the team. But maybe they can help him remember that he's more than that shit. "Thank you, Derek," Jack says softly. He opens his eyes in time to see Nursey look away awkwardly, a faint blush darkening their cheeks.

"Yeah, yeah, sap," they say, like they weren't the one making heartfelt declarations of team loyalty. "Drink your coffee before it gets cold."

Jack snorts and drinks. Then he sets down his cup and grins slyly. "So, what about you? You're a free agent again; gonna make your move with Ford?"

Nursey's mug clatters to the table so loudly the people at the next table glance over. "No way. No way did the second most oblivious man in dreamshare figure that out on his own. You didn't know you were into Bitty until last night. How the hell do you know _this_?"

Jack shrugs. "Bittle told me to watch for it. He said you weren't subtle, and he was right." He takes a sip and smirks at Nursey. "For the record, neither is she."

"What? _What_? That's not—it isn't—she's—"

Jack finishes his coffee and rattles the ice cubes. "Your move, Nurse."

"I literally hate you," Nursey tells him.

Jack nods sympathetically. "Not the first person to tell me that. Come on. We've got more stalking to do."

Nursey squints at Jack. "You know," they say slowly, "when I said I was coming to Samwell for hockey, people warned me you had no sense of humor. Turns out they meant you're a giant troll who thinks he's funny but isn't."

"ZimmerBot90 comes pre-equipped with the full range of hockey- and Canada-related jokes," Jack deadpans. "Watch out for that moose, eh? He'll check ya clear to Saskatoon. Beep-boop."

Nursey rolls their eyes. "Lord save me from white boys who think they're funny," they say. But they're smiling as they gathers things for the busing tray.

Jack wonders what the rest of the team is up to. Bits and Chowder had the fastest job; they might be poolside, or hitting the casinos. Ford and Lardo had the most precise work; they have to know the drive times between locations to within a fraction of a second. They'll do the runs multiple times until they can make them consistently.

He and Nursey are out for a good chunk of the day, but they aren't working the entire time. A day on the Strip isn't how Jack would choose to spend his vacation time, but he doesn't get concentrated one-on-one time with Nursey often, and it's nice.

They stop for lunch at a hole in the wall offering cheap prime rib and an all-you-can-eat buffet. After they order, Nursey sits back, looking melancholy.

"Hey," Jack says gently, "you okay?"

"Hmm?" Nursey asks. "Oh, yeah. Dex would've hated this job. Would've hated Vegas. All the excess, the wasted money. This would be the only place he would've smiled."

"Yeah," Jack says. And then, "I miss him, too."

By the time Jack's watch beeps at three, they're _done_. Jack's massively overheated, and Nursey's feet are killing them (they haven't said anything, but Jack can tell from how gingerly they're walking). Jack's put himself in Kenny's periphery two more times; any more before the game tomorrow would be pushing it.

They get back to the hotel at 3:30. The suite is empty. Jack tries to decide if he should worry, but he's too tired to care. He makes vague parting sounds at Nursey, staggers into the bedroom, and falls face-down on the bed, fully dressed. He's asleep before he can get his shoes off.

He half-wakes at one point, vaguely aware that something is happening. He struggles to wake enough to speak, but a kind voice tells him, "It's all right, sweetheart," and he lets himself fall back into sleep.

He wakes up at quarter to five. He's on top of the covers and out of his shoes and jeans, but he's not cold, despite the blasting AC, because Bitty's wrapped around him, heating him better than any blanket, breath warm and even on his neck.

Now he has a problem. Little is happening in Vegas at this hour, besides gambling, which he's not interested in. But he feels an itch to get up, to _do_ something. He wonders if Ford and Lardo have brought the car back. Or he could order a Lyft.

"You're thinkin' awful loud," Bitty mumbles.

"Sorry," Jack says automatically.

"Nothin' to be sorry for," Bitty says. Jack watches him struggle to the surface. Most dreamers fall in and out of sleep on a dime, but Bitty doesn't have the knack. His arm tightens around Jack and then releases. "If you want to read, or do your five thousand crunches on the floor or whatever, you go right ahead. Won't bother me." Jack believes him. Bitty is the only dreamer Jack knows who can sleep through anything that isn't a threat to him or the team.

Jack considers his options. Then he lifts Bitty's hand from his waist, kisses the knuckles, and slips out from under Bitty's arm. He's in a T-shirt and his underwear, so he moves to the end of the bed, drops to the floor, and starts his push-ups.

By the time he's finished push-ups, crunches ( _not_ five thousand, thanks, Bittle), and calisthenics, he feels more settled, and it's 5:30. He looks at the empty side of the bed and the way Bitty curls toward it. It beckons temptingly, but Jack knows himself too well.

Bitty mumbles into his pillow. It sounds like "check the fridge." Intrigued, Jack wanders out of the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him, and wanders into the suite's kitchen area.

When he looks inside the full-sized fridge, he laughs. "Of course," he mutters.

"Brah," says a voice behind him, and he's so startled he almost drops the door, "his supply check took like an hour and a half. What else was he going to do with his day?"

Jack looks again into the fully stocked fridge, including three magazine-perfect pies and what looks like a shepherd's pie. "I'm still amazed he did all this today."

"Jack," Lardo says solemnly, "he did this before _lunch_."

The fridge door holds two tightly packed rows of smoothies. One row is marked "J—>" another "N—>" Jack grins and takes one from his row. It's his favorite flavor.

"You got a goddamned good one," Lardo says.

Jack opens the cap and takes a huge drink. "The best one."

"Chivalry demands that I challenge you to a duel for that slight against my husband's honor, but, for you? Yeah. The best one." Lardo squeezes his hand and draws him away from the refrigerator, letting the door fall shut behind them. "And don't you worry; Shitty dragged him out of the kitchen and made him come gamble for a while." Jack's not sure that's better, but at least it's different.

"How much did he lose?"

"I don't think Bits actually played anything. Shits, though..." She chuckles. "Holster was egging him on."

Jack lowers his smoothie bottle and blinks at her. "Sick, at home, in _Boston_ Holster?"

Lardo snorts. " _Ransom_ is sick at home, desperately attempting to restore harmony to his delicate intestinal ecosystem. Holster has improved enough to call and demand that Shitty put him on vid and carry him around the casinos, asking servers to make the most outrageous non-alcoholic concoctions they could come up with." Her mouth twists. "Fair warning, they involved heaps of sugar and caffeine."

Wonderful.

Lardo works quietly in her sketchbook at the counter while Jack finishes his smoothie and tosses the bottle in the recycling bin. Then she closes it and says, "This suite has a sick game set-up. Come on. Let me kick your ass at MarioKart."

Jack laughs. "Yeah, okay."

They get the game going, and Jack falls into its familiar rhythm quickly. An image on the screen jogs his memory, and—"Will Bitty want to get married in Madison, or could I convince him to do it in Boston? Or Samwell. Would it be clichéd, getting married at Faber?"

When Lardo doesn't answer, Jack glances over. She's staring at him, mouth slightly open, controller limp in her hand.

"What?"

"Okay, Jack, listen: we're all so, _so_ happy for you and Bits. But think about it from our side. I know you two had this amazing week of falling in love and watching ice dancing or whatever. But we saw you _yesterday_ and you weren't dating. And today you're asking me about wedding venues. It isn't bad. Just hella weird."

"Oh." Jack blinks. He hasn't considered that. "Sorry," he says, because it's practically Canada's national motto, but he's not in the least bit sorry.

Lardo snorts. "You are not." She gives him a smirk. "For the record, no. I do not think it's clichéd for two hockey-loving bros to get hitched in the ice rink where they fell in love playing hockey."

Jack snorts. "We didn't fall in love at Faber."

"You didn't _realize_ you'd fallen in love at Faber," Lardo shoots back. Jack runs off Rainbow Road.

Jack has habits, and the team are creatures of them. By 6:30, they've gathered in the living room, none too pleased to be ready for dinner. Jack tries not to grin too widely.

Ford and Lardo institute a strict no-shop-talk at dinner rule, so the conversation is easy, mostly Shitty regaling them with tales of his and Holster's afternoon casino adventures. Part of Jack's brain is busy telling him to freak out. His team's down by two (and his dreamers by three); he's pushing his relationship with Bitty too far, too fast; and their ability to break up an international crime ring depends on how well he can hold his shit together in his ex-boyfriend's mind. The situation is readymade for an anxiety attack.

And yet, with most of his team around him (including a weak but recovering Ransom and Holster chirping Lardo by vid) and Bitty pressed warm and solid against his side, Jack doesn't have a fuck to give for that anxiety.

* * *

**Now: April 2021**

On Sunday afternoon, the Aces lose to the Schooners. Blaming the loss on Kenny wouldn't be fair. But it's a fact that the captain's mood impacts the rest of the team, and Kent's mood is frazzled at best. His head's not in the game, and it shows.

Jack can neither confirm nor deny that the lack of focus may be related to Kent having run into the cute person he'd been flirting with in his club yesterday, which distracted him enough that he can't be _sure_ that wasn't his ex hurrying past in a Colline Blanche hoodie.

Nursey waits in the parking lot while Kent makes his excuses to the team. Nine seasons with the Aces and three with the Kings, and he's not out to anyone in the league, now that Swoops has retired.

Nursey gets into Kent's car. The others (minus Lardo, who's stationed in an empty office in the arena), follow at a discreet distance in the rental.

They wince when Kent gets Nursey into his apartment and slams them against the door. The comms carry sound _very_ well.

"Take care of yourself, Nurse," Jack reminds them.

"And don't let him get too worked up," Bitty adds. "The Somnacin's calibrated for post-hockey game. Not post-hockey game and sex."

Nursey's answering grunt is a combination of reaction to whatever Kent's done and "I'm a professional; please let me work."

There's a wet sound that's obscene on comms but is probably just a kiss ending. "Who's a guy gotta blow in this place to get a glass of water?" Nursey asks.

Jack winces. It's too much. Kent will be onto them any second.

But, no, he's forgotten: Kenny doesn't know the meaning of "too much" when it comes to sex. A few seconds later, Jack hears the water run, and then Kent's voice, more than an octave lower than normal, says, "Maybe the better question is: who's a person gotta let blow _them_?"

"Come here and sit by me a minute," Nursey cajoles. Kent crosses the room, his tread heavy and stumbling by the time he reaches the couch.

"Sorry," Kent slurs. "Mus' be m'r tired th'n I… thhhh—"

Jack hears a soft thud, and then Nursey murmurs, "The birdie is in the nest."

Jack rolls his eyes. He's not sure how that became the code phrase for the mark being unconscious and ready for the next phase, but he suspects Shitty (a suspicion bolstered by the way Shitty whisper-shouts, " _The birdie is in the motherfucking nest!"_ as they leave the car and rush up the stairs to Kent's eighth-floor apartment).

With Shitty's help, Chowder has Nicci and the PASIV set up in under three minutes. Their watches beep softly as he synchronizes the level-lines to show how much time they have left topside and on each dream level.

Jack and Nursey arrange Kent on the couch. Jack remembers the couch-naps they took in the Q and reconstructs Kent's favored position. Then he modifies it, because Kent's not seventeen anymore.

Ford makes one last pass through the apartment to make sure there haven't been any massive, unexpected changes since she and Lardo were here yesterday. It happens.

Bitty runs a safety check on the Somnacin and hooks the vials into the PASIV. He tests and distributes feed lines, places his cannula and then Kent's. They get as comfortable as they can on Kent's ultra-modern living room set, and Shitty flips the master switch. Their IVs fill with Somnacin, their watches start the countdown, and they fall into Jack's dream.

The whole thing takes four minutes.

The first level is brilliant in its simplicity. It's the Aces' arena, primarily the office areas, with subtle changes worked throughout, like those "spot the difference" pictures in kids' magazines. It's the most architecturally straightforward level Lardo's ever designed, and it only has one function: to plant the idea of the Aces' _offness_.

By the time the dreamscape fully forms, Nursey's pressed Kent against a wall outside the GM's office, hands pinned to his sides. Kent pulls back, licking his lips and looking dazed. "You a hockey fan?"

Nursey's wearing an Aces T-shirt with a few details wrong. Most people wouldn't notice, but it's surely setting off alarms in Kent's head. Jack and the others move into position to take on any nervous projections that head Nursey's way.

"I'm a fan of boys who know how to handle a stick," Nursey purrs, running their hands through Kent's hair. Bitty catches Jack's eye and grins. Then he wanders away to make nice with the trash-collecting projection who's shown up at the end of the hall.

Nursey takes Kent's hand and tugs him toward the GM's office. Rans and Holster's research suggests that this man, Mort Schiever, or his assistant Waylon Massey, are their most likely culprits. They want this room firmly planted in his mind.

Kent balks. "We shouldn't be in there," he says. He plants his feet and won't be moved. Bitty's engaging the custodial projection in a complex discussion of where the trash goes when it leaves the arena.

Kent is literally digging in his heels; Jack can see where his heels are sinking into the floor of the hallway. "No one goes in Morty's office without Morty," he insists.

"Nurse," Jack murmurs, low so Kent can't hear him in Nursey's earpiece, "you're going to have to throw some eyelash into it."

Barely moving their lips, Nursey shoots back, "I'm wounded that you think I haven't been." But he lowers his head and, despite being a good four inches taller, manages to look up at Kent. "Did you say you studied ballet? I bet you're super flexible."

Jack swallows a snort. He spots a projection coming up the hall—coaching staff, he thinks—and walks quickly toward her, looking harsh. "What are you doing down here?" he hisses, turning her around without touching her and leading her back the way she came. "Why aren't you dealing with the mess in the locker room? This is a crisis! We need our best people on it!" She looks confused but goes in the direction he's pointed her. He hopes it's a long, difficult walk from here to the locker room.

Jack turns around in time to see Nursey pull Kent into Schiever's office. As soon as the door clicks shut, Bitty apologizes to the projection and shoves him into a supply closet. He's pale and shaking when he approaches Jack. Jack grabs his arms and looks into his eyes. "Bits, it's okay," Jack says. "He's not real."

"I know, but—"

"Bittle. He's. Not. Real." Jack glances up. A member of arena security is headed their way. That's an escalation. He needs Bitty calm, and he does that the best way he knows how: cups his cheeks with both hands and kisses him softly.

Bitty sighs softly and sags against him. "Thanks, hon," he says. "I needed that."

The security guard snorts and continues her rounds.

"Any time you're ready, Nurse," Jack says.

After a pause and a thud, Nursey says, "Come in."

Bitty, Nursey, and Jack hoist Kent up as Ford arrives in the room. She holds the secret fire escape open for them, and they lug Kent through it and down the stairs.

"This brings back memories," Jack says wryly. Nursey snorts. "He's heavier than the last time I did this. More muscle." He pauses. "Less drunk, though."

"Cut that out," Bitty hisses. Jack grins.

The second level is a riot of noise and light that makes Jack infinitely glad he's in the background. Children, frazzled adults, and creatures found in no ordinary reality chase each other around a funhouse straight out of nightmare—Chuck E. Cheese _a la_ Hieronymus Bosch.

"I hate this place," Jack mutters.

"I love it," Jack says.

Jack freezes. Jesus Christ. It's _him_. Seventeen years old, at the top of the world and the nadir of anxiety. His breath catches in his throat, and he watches his own eyes widen in front of him.

"No good?" Nursey asks.

"Perfect," he admits. "Too good."

Nursey nods. "Go. See what you can find. I got this."

Jack pulls Nursey into a rough hug and whispers fiercely, "It'll be all right." When he steps back, Nursey smiles sadly and nudges him away. Jack takes off as Kent's coming to.

The instant he's away from the noise and the lights, he starts finding pieces Kent's left lying around. In a corner office, in a storeroom full of gaudy stuffed animals, in the women's bathroom, Kent's left himself half-clues to investigate later. Nothing's fully formed; Kent's been working hard not to know what he knows, but he can't help himself. The instinct to identify danger and either eliminate it or get away from it is embedded deep in his brain. Jack guides the clues into the open, where Kent can find them later.

"Nursey," he murmurs as he steps out of bathroom, looking for projections but finding none, "bring him out of the main customer areas. Offices, supply rooms, bathrooms—if it looks like it should be off-limits, get him into it."

"You got it," Nursey replies. They sigh. "I am spending _way_ too much time making out with Kent Parson today."

Jack swallows his reaction noise. Bitty isn't so lucky, and his startled squawk is followed by a heartfelt, "Aw, _hell_ ," as, presumably, he's drawn attention from Kent's projections.

"On my way, Bitty," Ford says.

Jack looks around, considering his next move. Lardo may have designed this level too well: she's given them plenty of room to hide from projections, but Nursey will never be able to get Kent into all of these spaces. "Brace yourselves, guys," Jack says. He hauls the storeroom of stuffed animals into the manager's office and puts the bathrooms right next to it. Several projections pop up, looking nervous, and Jack waves them inside the men's room with an airy, "Spring cleaning," before knocking them unconscious and locking them inside. "Nursey, try the women's restroom," Jack says, and then he hides in the empty file room. He snorts. Kent literally wouldn't dream of paperwork.

He tunes out Kent and Nursey as best he can. It's hard not to listen, because their seventeen-year-old selves sound so happy. But Nursey is relentlessly thorough, and they made Jack talk about a lot of shit he'd hoped to never speak of again. So Nursey knows that that happiness was, at least on Jack's side, a thin veneer over near-bottomless anxiety. Jack hears that anxiety in Nursey's every word, laugh, and sigh. He can't relive it.

Nursey pulls Kent out of the arcade. They spend five minutes throwing stuffed animals at each other, ten minutes making out on the manager's desk, and a minute and a half "exploring" the women's bathroom because Nursey claims to never have been in a public women's room ("The fuck, Zimms? It's like the men's room with less urinal cake smell"). Every kiss is frenzied yet tentative, full of the thrill of anything illicit and new. Nursey's pulled Kent to the beginning of their physical relationship, before they stopped being so awed by touching each other (and, bluntly, before Jack stopped caring). It's almost sweet. That makes it worse.

Because Jack hears things now, with the benefit of adulthood and therapy, that he'd missed when he was living it. He hears the way he's so hesitant, so worried, and he hears how Kent rolls over that, cajoling, "One kiss. One more" and "No one's here," and "Come on, Jack, please—for me?" and “Don’t pussy out on me, Zimmermann.” Jack can't remember if it's accurate, or if it's Kenny's years of guilt talking, but it feels both so wrong and so, depressingly right that Jack wishes he could take out his earpiece and tell the team to get him when it's time to leave. He sinks to the floor of the file room and buries his shaking hands in his hair.

The door pops open, and Jack raises his head sluggishly, far less ready than he should be to fend off angry projections. But it's Bitty, and Jack's so relieved he could cry. "Come on," Bitty says, "up." Jack sits on the floor staring up at him. "We go the all-clear. Time to move to the third level." The all-clear? Crisse, it would've been right in his damned ear, and he didn't hear it. How long has he been in here?

"Oh, sweetheart," Bitty murmurs, dropping to his knees next to Jack. "Can you move?"

Jack lowers his hands slowly. "I think so."

"Okay. Okay." Bitty holds his hands under Jack's arms and rises with him slowly, not touching but ready to at the first indication that it's welcome. "Now, ordinarily I wouldn't rush you—"

"But we have a third level to get to," Jack says weakly. It's not perfect, but he feels better having Bitty and his seemingly endless support at his side. He's found someone—he's _chosen_ someone—who will never use his love against him. He's come so far from the anxious seventeen-year-old who believed he deserved whatever pain he got.

Jack leans on Bitty as they emerge from the file room. A half-dozen pissed-off projections block the path to the fire exit at the end of the hall. Bitty's turns and marches them back into the room they just left.

"Shortcut!" he shouts. A metal door appears in the wall. Jack laughs weakly and lets Bitty lead them down the new emergency steps into the third level.

It's better here. Quiet, empty, no flashing lights or rushing kids. Just him, and the team, and Kent, somewhere.

He's about to thank Bitty and tell him it's time to split up when he hears the click and whir that precedes an incoming message from topside. Shitty's voice is calm and measured through their earpieces, and Jack's anxiety comes roaring back before he hears the message.

"Attention valued customers, we have trouble in Aisle 6."

"What trouble?" Bitty asks sharply.

"Where's Chris?" Jack asks.

"Trouble with a capital T, and that rhymes with B, and that stands for Bureau of Investigations comma Federal."

" _Here_?"

"Negatory, Captain Knifeshoes," Shitty says. "They're at the arena, dangerously close to where Our Miss Duan is skulking around. Chowder's on the phone with her right now."

"How many? Come on, Shitty, give us the picture," Ford says.

"Two from Vegas Field, and a guest appearance by Very Special Agent William Poindexter of Cyber Crimes, who's come to collect the computers, I guess."

Bitty looks up. "What's the play, Jack?" he asks, voice soft, expression serious. No pet names, no chirps. Bitty in full-on work mode is one of the sexiest things Jack's ever seen, and now is the worst time to discover that kink.

Jack considers resources and contingencies, rejects backup plan after backup plan until one looks right. "Ford, Nurse, Bitty, Shits. Get out and take the car. Ford, drop Nurse and Bitty at the hotel. You and Shitty get to the arena as fast as you can but do not enter unless Lardo asks for you. Otherwise, be ready to burn rubber as soon as she can get out.

"Bits and Nursey, scrub the hotel room. Scorched earth if you have to."

"That leaves you alone in the dream!" Bitty protests.

Jack nods. "I know."

"Do we _need_ this level?" Chowder asks through the earpiece. "We've left lots of clues. Kent can't miss them, right?"

Jack shakes his head. "We've left enough to prick his conscience, but if we don't hit his emotional centers down here, it'll never be enough for him to do anything." He rubs his face. "This is our best shot, guys. Let's not miss it because we didn't take it."

"Oh, seriously, fuck your Uncle Wayne," Shitty gripes, but Jack hears him readjusting the dials for a solo flight on the third level.

The others pause for a long moment and then respond with audible reluctance.

"Aye-aye, Cap," Nursey says.

"You got it," Ford says.

"When and where's the meetup?" Bitty asks. His expression is tight and his voice is sharp.

Jack closes his eyes. This is the hardest part. "Three weeks from Sunday. Brunch at Shitty and Lardo's."

" _Jack,_ " Bitty whispers.

"Nursey, I know you and Chris were planning to stay here until you left for that thing with Farmer's family, but I encourage you to get out of Vegas. Sorry."

"No worries, Jack," Nursey says.

"Everyone else, scatter."

"Jack," Bitty says helplessly.

"I'll find you," Jack promises him.

They'd made their post-job plans weeks ago. They hadn't told each other where they were going. It's a rule of the scatter. They'd talked briefly, in Sochi, about changing their plans, going somewhere together, but they hadn't had time to make it happen. Bitty's going to leave this apartment and this city, and Jack has no idea where he'll be.

"I'm not ready to go three weeks without you," Bitty says.

"Bits." Jack takes a step closer. " _I will find you._ " He cradles Bitty's face in his hands and kisses him, slow and thorough, trying desperately not to consider how long it might be before he gets the topside, heat-and-flesh version. "I love you," he says when they part. "Now go."

"Love you, too, honey. Give ‘em hell." Bitty kisses him one more time, hard and fast, and then turns and races for the stairs to the second level.

Jack's heart and mind scream how wrong it is to be down here while his team's a level above him. He hears gunfire—far more than necessary for the team to shoot themselves out of the dream. He clenches his fists. "Chowder?"

"It's me, Jacko," Shitty says instantly. "Little change in the lineup."

Jack doesn't need to ask why. Chowder's dear to him—the whole team is—but no one can get him out of a panic attack, if it gets to that, like Shitty can. Not even Bitty.

"Everyone's fine," Shitty continues. "The projections are more rambunctious this time around, but it's nothing we haven't handled before."

"Thank you," Jack says. "Any idea where Kenny is?"

Shitty pauses, but he keeps humming, and Jack's so grateful he could kiss the man's dumb mustache. "Try the dock."

Memories of that vacation flood his mind. Kenny had never wanted to be inside if the weather was good enough to go outside. They'd spent a lot of time on the dock—close enough to be visible from the cabin; far enough away that their words wouldn't carry.

In his earpiece, the shooting dies down. "Clear!" Nursey shouts, then Ford. Jack's heart leaps into his throat during the pause that follows, and then Bitty coughs, "Clear."

Everyone calls another hasty goodbye. Jack hears two sharp retorts and feels Ford and Nursey fade from the dream. Jack _must_ be imagining that he hears the faint pop of a capsule being bitten down on. But then Bitty whispers, "Love you, sweetpea," and he's gone, too.

Jack is alone in the dream.

Jack's never been more keenly aware of the time differences between levels. He's trekking across the resort grounds, and every step feels like it takes a year. But the team is still in the condo.

He passes a sign that reads "Colleen Blank" and grins. The resort's real name isn't written anywhere in the dream, and Jack will be careful not to say it. They have the technology to make a dream more hyperrealistic than any movie, but they never use it. The fuzziness makes the dream more believable.

As Jack walks, he chants to himself, _They're after Schiever, not the team._ He can't make himself believe it, but it's better than constantly worrying that Dex and his FBI cronies are lying in wait to scoop his team off to jail, that instead of three weeks, it might be months or years until he sees them again.

"Took you long enough," Kent calls.

Jack stops. _Fuck_. That's _his_ Kenny projection on the dock, not Kent's projection of himself. "Shitty—"

"I'm tracking vitals, man, and that is the real-deal Kent Parson."

"Ciboire," Jack mutters, moving forward again.

Kent Parson is a multimillionaire pro hockey player and business-owner. He's captained his NHL team to two Stanley Cup wins and has a trophy case full of hardware to back it up—a Calder, a Hart, a Smthye, two Art Rosses. And yet, the image he's projecting on the third level is the cocky seventeen-year-old who was mostly bluff, secretly scared of his shadow and with no more clue about what to do with his life than the average infant.

Jack doesn't bother walking the rest of the way to the dock. He thinks himself into position and sits next to Kenny. "Traffic," he says, remembering at the last minute not to say "sorry," because Kenny hates "that fucking apologetic Canadian shit."

"Fucking lake people," Kent says, and Jack laughs rustily at the old, old joke.

Jack breathes evenly and keeps his eyes forward. If his Kent projection has shown up, it's best that he wait as long as he can before looking at it.

Kenny—the real Kenny, apparently—does a double-take. "Man, you look like _shit_."

"Don't listen to him, boo," Shitty says. "You're a masterpiece. Like, an actual Michaelangelo masterpiece. Not that Picasso, moved-your-face-around shit."

Jack bites his cheek to keep from laughing. He tells Kenny, "I'm 31."

"What? Get out."

"It's true." Jack gestures at the lake and the resort. "This is a memory."

"Huh," Kenny says. "Well, fuck."

"Yeah."

"So, you got old, huh?"

Jack huffs a soft laugh. "I've been told I look distinguished."

Kenny snorts outright. "By someone who wants to suck your dick, I bet."

Chowder had said it, but, wow, talk about things Kenny doesn't need to know.

"What happened to us, Zimms?" Kenny asks. "We don't talk anymore."

Jack could answer fifty different ways. Kenny would hate almost all of them. In the absence of a convenient lie, Jack opts for a truth: "I learned how to say no to you. You didn't like it."

"Oh, fuck you, Zimmermann," Kenny snaps. Jack keeps his eye on Kenny's other projections: a teenage girl with long brown hair and two old guys fishing from a rowboat beyond the end of the dock. Despite Kenny's agitation, they seem calm, but that can change on a dime. He's sharply aware that he's alone down here. If he dies, he's on the express train to Limbo. "You shut me out," Kenny continues. "You turned your back on me, and on the thing you loved more than anything else in the fucking world."

"I had to prioritize my health—"

"Boo-hoo the pressure," Kenny says, rolling his eyes. "Boo-hoo my anxiety. You were going to the big show, man. We were gonna be the best in the goddamn league. How many people get that shot? And you fucking threw it away!"

"It _killed me,_ Kenny!" Jack shouts, all pretense of calm flying out the window. "How do you not get that? I was dead in the ambulance for a two minutes and twenty-one seconds."

"You think you're the only pro-level player with anxiety?"

"I _know_ I'm not. I also know I'm not the only player to get that far and realize it wasn't right for them."

"Not _right_ for you?" Kenny's voice cracks. "You had a fucking _gift_ , Zimms. You don't hand that back and say, 'Oh, sorry, that's not for me.' You fucking push through and get over it like the rest of us!"

That "us" hangs heavy in Jack's heart, but he shakes his head. "Being good at hockey never obligated me to play, Kenny," he says quietly. "My dad taught me how to skate, and how to play hockey, and I'm grateful to him for that. But I never promised him I'd play pro in exchange for the lessons. I talked to at least a third of the teams in the league before the draft, but I never promised I'd sign with them. I don't owe anyone my life."

Kenny's silent for a long, thunderous minute, and Jack knows what he's going to say before he says it. "What about me?" he asks sullenly.

Jack smiles sadly. "You and I were a lot of things to each other," he says. "Not many of them good. And it was hard, being without you. You were my best friend and my first love, and that will always be a part of me. But I don't owe you anything, either. And you don't owe me anything." Jack stops, considering. "Except some apologies."

"Jesus, Zimmermann," Kenny grouses. Jack will never be able to convince Kenny that this seemingly selfish attitude of Jack's is the best thing he's ever done for either of them.

"For the record," Jack says, "I don't expect apologies for everything that happened when we were together. I'd like them, because you were a manipulative asshole, and you hurt me. But you were seventeen and had only had my parents as positive relationship role models." He shakes his head. "But you came to Samwell. And then you came _back_ to Samwell, after I explicitly asked you not to. And you were still a manipulative asshole. _That_ is what I want you to apologize for."

Jack takes a long, deep breath and lets it out. He's talked at length with various therapists about _What I would say to Kent if I had the chance._ And while those therapists would have preferred that Jack had used more "I statements" and talked about his feelings, rather than calling Kent a manipulative asshole, he thinks they would be proud of him for hitting his main points.

Kenny is notably less proud. "What about you?" he demands.

Jack hums. "All right, Kenny, what do _you_ want an apology for?"

"You fucking cut me off! I found you in that bathroom, and I didn't know if—I had to hear from your _mom_ that you were fucking alive. She ended that goddamned call by telling me it would be best if I not try to contact you again. And then you were just _gone_."

Jack considers that for a second and then nods. "That hurt you, and I'm sorry. But I'm not sorry for distancing myself from you."

"What the fuck half-assed apology is that?" Kenny snarls.

"More of one than you've given me!" Jack shoots back.

"Hey, Jackabelle," Shitty says quietly in his ear. It's as much about calming the projections as about being there for Jack, but it reminds Jack that he's not alone, and it centers him.

"If I had come to you after rehab," Jack says, calmer and more measured, "and told you that I wasn't going pro, would you have respected that?"

Kenny snorts. "I barely respect it _now_."

"I knew, as sure as I'd ever known anything, that I couldn't go into the league. And I knew that if I talked to you, you would do whatever it took to change my mind."

Kenny smirks, raising an eyebrow. "Well, Zimms, if one conversation with little ol' me could've changed your mind, maybe you weren't so secure in your decision."

Jack shakes his head. "It's not about how secure I was. Well, it was, but—you've always been able to get into my head. You twist my thoughts to get what you want, regardless of what's best for me. I couldn't be around that."

"You said you don't blame me." Jack hears the tinge of petulance in Kenny's voice.

Jack smiles sadly. "I wouldn't blame my house if it caught on fire, either, but I wouldn't stay while it burned down around me." He nudges Kenny with his shoulder. "And you got out of my shadow for good, eh? Nobody asks if you're riding my coattails."

"Yeah." Kenny flops onto his back on the dock and throws his arm across his eyes. "But I wanted them to. I wanted us to sit in hotel rooms and throw shit at the TV when _SportsCenter_ tried to pit us against each other. I was never supposed to do it without you."

"Hey. Kenny, hey." Jack lies down beside Kenny and reaches toward him. He hesitates for a second and then thinks, _It's for the dream,_ and takes Kenny's hand. "You're not alone, though, right? I mean, you're the captain. The Aces have your back."

Kenny snorts. "The Aces are corrupt, Zimms. Rotten from the inside out. Mort Schiever, our GM? Him and his super-gross toadie assistant, they're in something _big_. I don't know what. I'm not sure how I know. But it's big, and it's bad, and being in the same room as them makes me feel oily."

Jack squeezes Kenny's hand and suppresses a thrill. "What are you going to do?"

" _Do_?" Kenny slants him an incredulous look. "I'm gonna shut my mouth and play hockey."

"But if they're breaking the law—"

"Law schmaw, as your dad would say. Money talks in this town, Zimms. The cops belong to whoever pays the most in any situation. If it's me versus our fucking GM, who do you think that is?"

Jack's toeing a dangerous line. Let Kenny off the hook, and all their effort is wasted. Push too hard, or suggest something out of place, and Kenny might check out of the dream. "What if it's bigger?"

"Bigger?"

"Than Vegas. What if they're committing crimes that go statewide? Or further?"

Kenny shudders. "Then it's _definitely_ not worth sticking my neck out. Heads get lost that way."

Jack sighs. He has to reveal more than Kenny expects him to know and hope that Kenny doesn't question how he knows it. "There are kids involved, Kenny. Young kids. And it'll get worse for them unless someone stands up."

Kenny's quiet for so long Jack has to check to make sure he's still there. Then, "This is one fucking weird dream, man."

Jack laughs. He stirs up a swirl of silvery fish around the rowboat, to cement the idea that this is a dream, so no one needs to worry. "It sure is."

"So, you got someone?" Kenny asks. His fingers trail suggestively up Jack's arm, and Jack jerks away without thinking.

Kenny closes off immediately, looking equal parts hurt and pissed. Jack can't be sorry. "Yeah," he says, "I do. It's new, but it's good." He can't help the small smile that creeps across his face. "He's good."

"He," Kenny repeats softly. "Well, there's one thing you can have that I can't."

"You sure?" Jack asks, frowning. "I mean, maybe Aces management isn't the best, but the guys would support you, wouldn't they?"

Jack thinks the look Kenny gives him is supposed to be a smirk, but it's so hurt and alone that Jack's heart cracks. "No," Kenny says, "they wouldn't. One thing the Las Vegas Aces have plenty of is good ol' no homo jock culture."

In his ear, Shitty launches a rant against toxic masculinity. Jack ignores him in favor of telling Kenny, "That sucks."

"It's the NHL," Kenny says with a shrug.

"You know I've never believed it had to be that way. Me or Papa."

Kenny rolls his eyes. "How could I forget? Jack and Bob Zimmermann, changing hockey culture, one strongly worded ESPN commentary at a time."

Jack gives him a small, embarrassed smile. It does sound ridiculous, when he puts it like that.

Kenny rolls onto his side so he's facing Jack. "It wouldn't be so bad if I trusted the guy."

Jack sees the signals, but he doesn't _believe_ Kenny's going to do it until a hand hits the waistband of his swim trunks and slides around to his ass. Jack jerks back, knocking the hand away. "Tabarnak, Kent! I just told you I have a boyfriend!"

Kent gestures around. "Is he here? No, because this is a _dream._ Jesus wept. Even fantasy you is an uptight prick."

And here's the thing that Jack never considered: all this time, dreaming about Kent has been a nightmare for him. Maybe for Kent it's been… something else.

"Jack," Shitty says in his ear, "you've done what you went in to do. Get yourself safe."

"Yeah," Jack says. Thinking it's a reply to him, Kent snorts. "I gotta go, Kenny. Take care of yourself."

"Whatever, Zimms." Kenny waves a hand, already dismissing him.

Jack looks toward the shore. The door seems so far away. He could drag it here, but that would draw attention from Kent's projections, and he needs to survive long enough to get up two levels and get out. But maybe if the projections can't see him… "Hey, Shits," Jack murmurs, "I'm gonna move a door."

Shitty starts laughing. "Under the water?"

"Yeah." Jack grins.

"You melodramatic moose-fucker," Shitty says proudly. "Okay, do it on three so I can keep track of the projections. One…"

It sits heavy in Jack's gut, the disappointment. He hadn't told anyone, even Bitty, but he's been holding onto the hope that this dream could be a new start for him and Kent. That they could offer each other much-needed apologies within the relative safety of the dreamscape and wake up feeling like their friendship could one day be repaired. But Kent's not there yet. Jack feels for the guy, he does. But it's not his job to hold Kent Parson together anymore.

"Two…"

Jack looks around the resort. Even in his childhood the place had been shabby. By the time they brought Kenny here as a teenager, it had been downright dilapidated. It's still undeniably charming.

Kent's projections watch him with little patience and increasing hostility. Kent's done with Jack, so his subconscious is, too.

And there, at the opposite end of the dock, watching without moving, is Jack's Kenny. Jack doesn't know how long he's been there, but he hasn't spoken, or interfered, or moved, as far as Jack can tell. As Jack's gaze catches on him, he lifts a hand and waves, mouth curling in a familiar sardonic grin. Then he turns and walks away.

Jack's breath catches in his throat. He wishes that someone— _anyone_ —from his team were here to see this. The Kenny projection may never go away. But it appears they've reached détente, and that feels like the biggest victory he's won in this dream.

"Three."

Below the water beyond the edge of the dock, a dark rectangle shimmers into view. Through it, Jack sees the flashing lights and hears the clamoring bells of the arcade. He takes a deep breath, a running start, and a flying leap. For one perfect, suspended moment, he's weightless and free. Kent—the real Kent—shouts his name. Then he hits the water and falls through the door and up to the second level.

Shitty's cheering in his ear as he hits the carpet in the arcade and rolls to his feet. The cheering cuts off abruptly as nearly a dozen projections close in on Jack. "Shit! Sorry, Jack!"

"Don't be sorry," Jack says through gritted teeth. "Keep them off my back for a minute."

"Hold on." Seconds later, the place quakes. Shitty must've shaken him. Jack doesn't take time for the thanks he owes him, just bolts toward the fire escape. He dodges a couple fast-recovering projections and finally reaches the door. He closes his hand around the knob—and jerks as something clamps around his ankle. He twists to look. A projection has thrown itself forward and is gripping his ankle with all its might. Jack shakes his leg once, twice. The projection doesn't waver. He plants the captured foot, lifts the other, and kicks the projection hard in the face. It lets go, howling in pain. Jack bolts out the door and up the stairs. The gun's already in his hand by the time he pops out on the first level.

It's a mistake. Kent's brain is on alert, and the projections are waiting for him at the door. Several of them shout "Gun!" and he goes to the ground under a pile of them, barely avoiding getting pushed back into the fire escape and down to the second level.

"Should I shake you again?" Shitty asks.

"No thanks!" Jack grunts. He blanks the gun and fights his way to his feet. "Hey!" he says. "No more gun." He holds out his hands, fingers spread, left thumb tucked against his palm. "The gun is gone."

Most of the projections relax and step back. But one, a girl with long brown hair—the same girl with long brown hair who'd been on the third level _oh shit it's Jenna how had he forgotten Jenna?_ —lunges for him, reaching impossibly long fingers toward his hand. "What's this?" she screeches. "What are you holding?" Jack shoves the capsule in his mouth and bites down as Jenna tackles him.

"Jack?" Shitty calls. Her voice sounds faint and far away. "Talk to me, bro!"

Jack doesn't know what was in that capsule. He doesn't know what it does or how it works. He thinks of Bitty convulsing on a couch and thinks, _It's fast, at lea—_

He wakes up in Kent's apartment with Shitty's face three inches from his face. "Tabarnak!" Jack gasps, flailing backward. He looks instinctively at Kent, but he's out like a light.

"I heard a fucking lot of yelling," Shitty hisses. "Who was yelling?"

Jack winces as he sits up and removes his cannula and then Kent's. Bitty gave Kent time-release Somnacin; the dream will fade in a few minutes, but he'll be asleep for another hour. "Kent's stepsister." He smiles ruefully. "She never liked me in real life, either."

Shitty looks like he has questions about Jenna Parson but knows this isn't the time to ask, so he puts Nicci away while Jack packs up the PASIV. Then they clean the condo. They leave it as they found it, with the exception of a note in Nursey's cramped writing that reads, " _This was fun! Let's do it again next time I'm in town. xo Will_ " Jack's not touching that with a ten-foot pole.

He and Shitty don't speak until they're in the elevator heading toward the ground floor.

"Man, were you okay in there?" Shitty asks. "Your vitals were all over the place."

Jack rests his head against the elevator wall. "It was what it was. Time will tell if it took."

"Yeah." They share a beat of silence, and then Shitty says, "Everyone got out okay, near as I can tell." He shrugs. "Nobody hit their panic button, anyway."

Jack checks his watch. Between the end of the dream and the cleanup, only twenty minutes have passed since Shitty sounded the alarm. Things have plenty of time to go tits-up.

"Derek and Bitty are probably still at the hotel," Jack says, trying for casual.

Shitty punches him gently in the shoulder. "Scatter means scatter, man. _You_ made that rule."

Jack sighs. He did, and yet—"I don't know where Bitty's going."

Shitty grins wolfishly. "Got a puzzle to keep you occupied, then, bro," he says.

Jack huffs a laugh. That sounds exhausting. He rolls his head toward Shitty. "Hey. Shits."

Shitty raises an eyebrow.

"You're gonna have a _kid_."

Jack isn't given to flights of poetic language. But the only way to describe Shitty's smile is _radiant terror_. "Dude, I _know_!" he says. "Like, at any given minute, I can't decide if I'm gonna hurl or burst into song, musical theater style!"

Jack laughs. "Don't offer Holster that option." His expression grows serious again and he squeezes Shitty's shoulder. "You're going to be amazing."

" _Lardo_ 's going to be amazing. I'm gonna be a massive fuckup."

The elevator dings and opens up to deposit them on the ground floor. "B. Shitty Knight," Jack says, aware that he's channeling Bittle, "don't tell me you're assuming that Lardo will be a better parent because she's a woman."

"Fuck no, brah," Shitty says as they cross the needlessly expansive lobby. "I'm assuming Lardo will be a better parent because—look, she and her family have their issues, but—come on, man. You've met my family. The Duans can't touch the flaming dog shit tower of dysfunction that is the Knight clan. I had literally no healthy parenting role models. I don't know what to _do_."

Jack smiles sadly. He _has_ met Shitty's family, and while there are a couple of good eggs in the crate, they're far from the best people to build a parenting philosophy around. "Well then," Jack says, "ask yourself, _What would my grandmother do?_ and do the opposite."

Shitty grins. "Fucking devious, Zimmermann. Our li'l Bits's having a good impact on you." Jack snorts.

Two Lyfts wait at the curb. Shitty makes a "one minute" gesture at the driver of a lime-green Kia Soul. He puts his hands on Jack's shoulders, stares into his eyes, and says, "You know I love you, right, bro?"

Jack nods earnestly. "I love you, too." Shitty's earnest scattering of "I love yous," never with a "no homo" attached, is one of the greatest gifts Jack's ever received, and he treasures it.

"And I would never argue against the post-job scatter."

"Because that's Holster's job."

"But if you and Bits show up for brunch and you've haven't seen each other in three weeks—" He shakes his head sadly. "I'm afraid it's a month of Lardo's purple nurples for you."

Jack chokes on a laugh. Then he considers the situation he's describing. He nods solemnly. "That's fair." He pulls Shitty into a fierce hug. "I'm so happy for you both."

Shitty gives him a whiskery nuzzle. "And I'm happy for you." Then he walks to the Soul, calling "See ya, bro," and giving a lazy two-fingered wave as he climbs in.

Jack laughs wearily and gets into the other car, a white sedate Chevy Malibu. The driver raises an eyebrow in the rearview. "Boyfriend?"

Jack shakes his head. "Best friend."

The driver eases into traffic. "He seemed intense."

"Thank God," Jack says, grinning.

*

Jack makes a call as soon as he's out of the car at the airport, to okay showing up two days early. Then he changes his ticket, gets through security as quickly and forgettably as he can, and heads for his gate.

Scatter means scatter, but looking after the team is second nature. He can't help that his eyes scan each departure gate.

He doesn't find them. He's not sure if he's worried or relieved.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are: Chapter the Last

**NOW: April 2021**

Jack's being a terrible guest. As soon as he got in, he'd face-planted on the bed and slept for eleven hours. Since he woke up, except for meals, he's been either holed up in the library/guest room or pacing the tiny balcony, gaze glued to his laptop and phone glued to his ear.

Arrest reports and police bands assure him that his team remains at liberty. Agent Poindexter isn't taking time out of his Big Brothering to hunt them down and arrest them for dreamcrimes. Jack _also_ hasn't found reports of the Aces' GM and/or his assistant being arrested as part of a trafficking ring bust.

Mostly, though, he's looking for Bitty.

He's not worried about their relationship, new though it is. They can go three weeks without seeing each other and pick up where they left off. But he doesn't _want_ to, and he doesn't think he has to.

Plus, Lardo's purple nurples are no joke.

On Monday morning, when the job had originally been predicted to end, Jack's ensconced in the library. His browser shows the listings of McCarran's international departures from Saturday; the atlas is open to a map of Romania; and he's on the phone with Chowder, who's surprisingly reluctant to help find Bitty.

The doorbell rings. Slow, careful footsteps shuffle down the hall to answer it. Jack assumes it's a neighbor and pays no mind until he hears a tap at his door. "Jack?" Pépé calls. "Someone to see you."

Jack blinks. Who knows he's here? "Chris," Jack says, "let me call you back." He ends the call and is making his way toward the door when it opens and—" _Bitty._ "

Bitty smiles at him, but it looks wobbly. "Hi, honey," he says. He launches himself forward, arms flinging tight around Jack's waist, face buried in his chest. Jack wraps his arms around Bitty's shaking shoulders, presses his face to Bitty's hair, and _breathes._

A throat clears. Jack looks up and isn't surprised to see that Mémé has joined Pépé in the hall outside the room. Bitty springs back, hastily wiping his eyes. "Gracious me," he trills, accent thick with all sorts of emotions, "where the heck are my manners?"

"Bits, it's okay," Jack says, rubbing Bitty's back. He smiles at his grandparents. "Mémé, Pépé, this is my boyfriend, Eric Bittle. Bittle, my paternal grandparents, Henry Zimmermann and Edith Hornick-Zimmermann."

Jack watches Bitty struggle with the cognitive dissonance of knowing Jack's grandparents without having met them. Then he smiles widely and shakes their hands. "It's a real honor to meet you in person," he says. "Jack's talked about you so much I feel like I know you."

Mémé raises an eyebrow, and Pépé gives Jack a look he can't decipher, but they shake Bitty's hand and allow him to charm them. "Does this unexpected arrival have anything to do with why we've barely seen you since you arrived?" Mémé asks.

Bitty gasps. "Jack Laurent Zimmermann! Where the heck are _your_ manners?"

Jack shrugs, unapologetic. "I've had work to do."

"We'll give you a minute," Pépé says, and he winks at Jack before he closes the door.

"I thought I was going to find you," Jack says.

"Didn't see any need to wait," Bitty says, shrugging.

"How did you figure it out?"

"You're a creature of habit, honey. It wasn't hard." He winks. "Once Chowder hacked your phone."

Jack laughs and looks in wonder at the man before him. They need to discuss a thousand things. Jack can't concentrate on a single one of them, not with Bitty standing in front of him, warm and travel-rumpled and _right here_.

He presses Bitty against the now-closed door and leans in, capturing his mouth in a devouring kiss. Bitty moans. Jack slides his hands under Bitty's shirt, splaying his fingers wide to touch as much of that warm, soft skin as he can. Bitty slots a leg between Jack's and grinds his thigh against Jack's cock, which hardens instantly.

Someone taps on the door. Jack and Bitty spring apart, burning with mortification at having forgotten Jack's grandparents. "Jack," Mémé says through the closed door, "Henry and I remembered an errand we have to run. We'll be back in an hour."

"Hour and a half!" Pépé calls. Bitty stifles a giggle against Jack's shirt.

«Merci, Pépé», Jack says, before he hides his face in Bitty's hair.

They wait, frozen, until Jack's grandparents ostentatiously leave the apartment, bickering loudly and slamming the door unnecessarily hard behind them.

Jack lets out a long breath and looks at Bitty, sure the moment's been ruined. But Bitty's looking back with wide, dark eyes and a wicked smile. "You got a bed in this place?"

Jack kisses him and walks them backward across the room until his legs hit the guest bed. He sits, and Bitty follows him down, settling in his lap. The tender way he pushes Jack's hair away from his face and lays butterfly kisses along his forehead and cheeks is at glorious odds with the filthy way he's grinding down with a roll of his hips that has Jack's blood singing in his veins.

Bitty leans close until his lips are right against Jack's ear. "What do you want, sugar?" he whispers and nips at Jack's earlobe.

Jack jerks. " _Bits,_ " he groans. Bitty can't expect him to think right now, can he? To make decisions?

"Hmm." Bitty leans back and looks at him. "Looks like we're gonna have to talk about our decision-making process. But for now..." He trails off and looks Jack over. _Thoroughly._ Usually Jack hates that level of scrutiny, but Bitty's not assessing Jack for weaknesses; he's just a horny guy who likes what he sees. "I don't know. Maybe this dramatic reunion's got me sentimental. But I just wanna look in your eyes while I fuck you. How does that sound?"

Jack is scrambling up to get out of his clothes before he's aware that he's moving, only Bitty's fast reflexes and athletic grace keeping him from getting dumped onto the floor. "Sorry," Jack says with a rushed apology kiss, struggling out of his shirt.

Bitty laughs. "Slow down, honey. We have time."

"At least an hour and a half," Jack says, rolling his eyes.

Bitty laughs harder, though with an edge of embarrassment.

Jack tries to heed Bitty's advice and slow his fingers. They have time. They have time. They have—" _Sacrament._ " He covers his face. "I don't have supplies."

Bitty pats his arm. "Would I fly clear across North America to see my boyfriend and not stop at a drugstore along the way?" He crosses the room to where Jack now sees two bags sitting by the door—Bitty's and his own. He makes a big show of bending down, swaying his ass while he looks through his things.

Jack drags his gaze away. "You brought my bag?"

Bitty glances over his shoulder. "We were in the suite. I wasn't gonna abandon your stuff."

And it's weird, but that helps. Remembering that Jack's team has his back as much as he tries to have theirs—that feels good.

Bitty comes back to the bed with a bottle of lube and a strip of condoms, and Jack doesn't think about team dynamics anymore.

Bitty takes Jack apart slowly and thoroughly. His fingers are so methodical Jack can barely stand it. And every thrust, every twist, is accompanied by a stream of praise as smooth and steady as melted butter. Bitty's got a lot to say about how good Jack is, how beautiful, how well he's doing. Bitty's hands set Jack on fire, and his words sooth Jack like rain.

By the time Bitty's cock gets in the game, what feels like hours later, Jack's a writhing, panting mess, and he wants it to last forever. He hangs onto Bitty and meets his thrusts as best he can. He's heaving and sweating, and he can't stop grinning, his expression mirrored on Bitty's face.

Bitty wraps his arms around Jack and holds on so tight, and Jack comes with a roaring in his ears that sounds like a waterfall.

*

"...we've only been dating for a month. But I've known Jack since my first week at Samwell."

"You played hockey, too?" Mémé asks.

If you asked Jack to describe his perfect evening, this would come close. With less than a week left until the team regathers, he's sitting on his grandparents' couch, a glass of iced tea in one hand, his other arm around Bitty, his socked feet, despite Mémé's glares, on the coffee table. He and Pépé are watching a World War I documentary, mostly in silence, while Bitty chats with Mémé and Mémé crochets a pink, purple, and orange behemoth of a blanket that will surely go home with Bitty.

"I sure did, ma'am," Bitty says. "Jack was my captain! Used to get me up at 4:30 in the morning for checking practice." He cuts Jack a sly look as Mémé tuts in dismay. "And he was awful concerned about my protein intake."

Jack keeps his gaze on the TV, but his twitching lips give him away. "You were so good for someone who'd only been playing for two and a half years, but you looked like a stiff breeze could knock you over." He slides his hand down and squeezes Bitty's bicep. "Much better now."

Mémé laughs, and Pépé shakes his head, and Jack gets distracted by the memory of how far down that blush of Bitty's goes.

They've been here the entire scatter, except for three nights at Colline Blanche after Maman mentioned that it had been sold and overhauled eight years ago. Jack's shown Bitty around the neighborhood that'd been his second childhood home. Jack's parents came to visit for five days. Bitty and Mémé have spent hours in the kitchen, exchanging recipes and tips. Pépé's done more for Bitty's French pronunciation in two and a half weeks than Jack did in Bitty's entire time at Samwell. Mémé and Pépé have remembered a slew of errands and obligations that take them out of the apartment, and Bitty and Jack have spent what feels like days behind the locked guest room door. It's Jack's favorite vacation ever.

Per protocol, the team has checked in with Rans and Holster, and Rans and Holster have checked in with Jack. The FBI is talking to Mort Schiever in connection with an ongoing investigation and therefore can't speak about it. However, as far as they can tell, Agent Poindexter's former teammates are not considered persons of interest. They're in the clear.

The one fly in the ointment is the waiting. Extraction gives immediate results: the mark writes down the combination to a safe, or hands them a long-lost childhood diary, or tells them the location of the prototype. They can test the information immediately and know if it's valid.

With inception, they have to wait. Wait to find out if the idea took. Wait to find out if the mark's going to act on it. It's torment.

During the Battle of Verdun, Jack's phone rings. He glances at the display and doesn't recognize the number. His finger hovers over the decline button. Then he stops. _Area code 702_. Las Vegas.

Jack holds the phone out to Bitty. Eyes wide, Bitty nods and makes a shooing motion. Jack jerks his head toward the guest room and gets up shakily to walk down the hall. He takes the call as he's closing the door behind him. "Hello?"

"What was the name of that ski place we went to with your folks?"

In spite of how much is riding on this call, Jack rolls his eyes. He heads deeper into the library part of the room and settles on the old, lumpy, and surprisingly comfortable harvest gold loveseat in the back corner of the room so he can look out the window. "Hello, Kent. What a surprise."

"Yeah, yeah. What was it called?"

"Colline Blanche," Jack says.

" _That's_ it!" Kent practically shouts. "I was so close."

"I was there last week."

"Shut up."

"For real."

Kent laughs. "It still a dump?"

"Nah, it got new owners a few years ago, and they cleaned it up. It's less seedy, but it's boring."

"Like you," Kent says.

Jack grits his teeth. One dream, no matter how cathartic, wasn't going to radically alter Kent's behavior. "I haven't thought of that place in years. Have you?"

Kent pauses for a long time and then sighs and says, "Had a weird dream about it. Name's been on the tip of my tongue for almost a month."

The door squeaks open, and Bitty slips into the room. "Can I stay?" he mouths to Jack, and Jack nods. Bitty arranges himself in the corner of the loveseat, and Jack leans against him, resting his head against the solid strength of Bitty's chest. Bitty wraps an arm around him and kisses the top of his head. He can do this now.

It's been a while since Jack has had to finesse a phone call with Kent. Neither of them is particularly good on the phone. Jack prefers an actual human presence in front of him, and Kent's people skills rely on his ability to see and charm whoever he's talking to. Jack is itching to end the conversation, job be damned, but Kent won't call again, and Jack is loath to let him go without some indication of whether they succeeded.

"So, what was the dream?" Jack asks.

Kent's snort is eloquent. "Nah, Zimms," he says, and that old Kent Parson smirk is in his voice, but it sounds hollow. "My dreams aren't yours to know anymore."

Jack forces a laugh and says, "I never wanted to know to begin with. Remember the one where you were trying to milk a goat piñata?" Bitty smacks a hand over his mouth to muffle a burst of laughter. "I never needed to know that much about your subconscious."

"Oh, look at that," Kent drawls. "Zimms still thinks he's funny."

Jack rubs his forehead. God, they can't go five minutes without needling each other. They would've eaten each other alive in the NHL. "I'm very funny," Jack says, trying for haughty.

"Who told you that? A puck bunny?"

Jack takes a deep breath. "My boyfriend."

Bitty's arm squeezes tighter. His eyes are on his own phone, but Jack knows he's listening and will be more than happy to give Kent a piece of his mind if Jack needs it.

Kent goes silent. Then he says, "Well, pro tip, Zimms: he just wants your stickhandling skills, so take everything he says with a grain of salt. Sorry, man. Just telling it like it is."

The passionate defense of Bitty leaps to Jack's lips, even as he's distantly amused to hear Kent parroting Nursey's words at him. Bitty rubs his hand up and down Jack's arm and murmurs, "Not worth it."

"Well," Jack says, "I'll take that under advisement."

"'Under advisement,'" Kent scoffs. "You a lawyer now?"

"Nah, just best friends with one."

Kent pauses. "Yeah?" he says, failing at casual. "You still know that guy?"

"Absolutely," Jack says. He presses his luck. "I'll be at his place on Sunday."

Kent hesitates for a shorter time before saying, "Give him this number, wouldja? I maybe need legal advice."

"Okay," Jack says carefully, "but Shitty's in corporate law. Helping big companies and rich CEOs avoid the consequences of their misdeeds, that sort of thing."

Kent huffs in frustration. "Give him the number, okay? Did you know the FBI's sniffing around Morty? I might… know shit, and I need advice on who to talk to, and when, and what to say. I remember your buddy had... I don't know. Strong opinions on shit."

Jack laughs. "That he does." He forces himself to say what he would say if he didn't know what was going down with Aces management. "If you're in trouble—"

"Not _me_ , Zimms, Jesus. I'm keeping my dick in my pants and my BAL under legal limits. Christ, I am too old for this shit. I haven't had a real date in like a year. I met somebody a couple weeks ago, but—fuck. Whatever. Not like it could've gone anywhere anyway."

Jack winces. Looks like Nursey did the job too well. Jack taps his fingers against his leg. No, wait, that's Bitty's leg. Jack smiles sheepishly and stops tapping. "I don't mind," Bitty whispers. Jack at least goes from tapping to rubbing. Bitty gives a small, pleased sigh.

Jack thinks. This is the go-for-broke conversation, right? It's been five years since he talked to Kent; it might be at least five before he does it again. "Listen, I don't know where your contact's at—"

"For the last time, dickhead, I don't want to play for your Uncle Mario."

Jack chuckles, because he can't imagine Uncle Mario wanting Kent on his team. "Do you know Georgia Martin?"

A beat, and then, suspiciously, "The guy who writes the dragon books?"

Now Jack laughs outright. "The AGM of the Falconers."

"Jesus, why would I want that? If I get traded again, I want to at least go back to '67 Expansion, if not Original Six. No way in fuck I want another expansion team with a worse record than the one I'm on."

Jack blows out a breath. "Talk to her, at least. I can give you her number, tell her you want to talk."

" _Why_?"

Jack reaches out without looking. Bitty grabs his hand, and he holds on as tight as he can without crushing Bitty's fingers. "At the end of my junior year at Samwell, I didn't know what I was going to do after graduation, and my anxiety spiraled. I called people from the league who were still showing interest." This was immediately after Dom's visit. When breaking into people's dreams becomes a viable career option, pro hockey looks like a more reasonable aspiration. "George was one of them."

"And…?" Kent asks, clearly waiting for a punchline.

"And what she's doing with that team, Kenny, nobody else in the league is thinking about. She's creating an atmosphere of support and respect, rather than the bullshit macho dick-measuring you get in most locker rooms.

"She focused on mental health, because she knew I have anxiety. But when I told her I'm bi, and that I'd been out since rehab and wouldn't be willing to hide again, she was behind me instantly. Said the team would have my back all the way—players _and_ management." Jack closes his stinging eyes. George's easy, unhesitating acceptance had meant so much to him, and he doesn't think she realized it.

"I went down one weekend, met some of the guys—Robinson, St. Martin, Mashkov. In the end I chose a different path, but Providence was the one place I could see myself playing pro and still being happy." He could say more, but he shuts his mouth and holds his breath. He's vaguely aware of Bitty staring at him open-mouthed. He hadn't known this. No one had known this, not even his father.

"Christ, Zimms," Kent snaps. "We don't all need fucking rainbow confetti and Pride Tape."

Jack rolls his eyes. "I don't imagine you holding a coming-out press conference your first day there. But if you're interested in playing where you could at least tell your teammates and know they'd support you… it might not be the worst thing in the world, is all I'm saying." His voice softens, almost involuntarily, as he adds, "It's been twelve years, Kenny. Aren't you tired?"

Jack waits through another long pause. Kent blows out a sharp breath. "Yeah, sure, send me not-dragon-dude's number, whatever."

Jack waits again. He thinks Kent wants to say something more, though he's not sure what. But a beat passes, and another, and another. The silence itches. Whatever's stuck in Kent's throat won't be getting past his tongue today. "Right," Kent finally says, "I'll let you get back to your boyfriend and your innovation consulting."

 _Your settled, conventional life,_ Jack translates, and he almost smiles. _Oh, Kent, if you only knew._

But he doesn't, and he never will. Once upon a time, Jack had given every part of himself to Kent, and in the years since, a tiny sliver of him has been anticipating the day when that would be true again. But it never will. Dreamshare is a part of himself that he can never show Kent. And that's okay. He has a different present, and a new future to look forward to. Maybe he can put the past to rest.

"Take care of yourself, Kent," Jack says softly. "No one deserves to be unhappy."

"Whatever," Kent says. "Bye, Zimms." He hangs up, ending the call as gracelessly as he began it.

Jack tosses his phone onto the loveseat and rubs his eyes. "Merde."

"How you doing, sweetpea?" Bitty asks softly.

It's warm here, the loveseat positioned next to a heating vent. In the front room, he hears the easy back-and-forth of his grandparents bickering, like they've done for his entire life. His feet are flat on the floor, and though his heart rate is slightly elevated after the call, his breathing's even. And everywhere, _Bitty_. Bitty's arms around him, Bitty's cheek on top of his head, Bitty unconditionally accepting everything that Jack is, and that they are together. On Sunday, he'll got home and see the team, and Bitty will be everywhere there, too.

Jack smiles at Bitty. "Everything's fine." By habit, he dips a hand into the pocket of his track pants and touches his totem. But he doesn't need to check it to know what it says. _Happy Birthday August 3!_ He's wide awake, and that doesn't scare him anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for joining me on this wild ride! Feel free to leave kudos or comments on your way out, if you've a mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Why am I still on tumblr? Interia, mostly! [Come say hi](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/) if you're still around.
> 
> Thanks as always to [the_wordbutler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler) for constant enthusiasm and sounding board services for this story.


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